In a forgotten corner of the Southern California desert, two 17-year-olds, Dan and Tamma, stare up at a 35-foot tall expanse of rock. Tackling it and climbing their way to the top is a challenge that could kill them in an instant. Even still, neither has ever felt more alive. So begins Gabriel Tallent’s Crux, a rich, textured and gripping novel that strikes at the core of why so many people (myself included) find meaning in rock climbing: the beauty and poetry of being at your absolute limit and somehow taking one more step.

Although Crux revels in its numerous climbing sequences – so tense and technically accurate that my palms were often sweating in sympathy – the novel would be nothing without its characters. Dan and Tamma’s unshakeable friendship is such a livewire of passion and joy forged in crass, glorious speeches and silent moments of care that I couldn’t help but root for them the moment I met them. Climbing is their sole escape from the poverty, mental illness and regret that haunt their families and the expectations that, in one way or another, threaten to suffocate their dreams for good. Every moment on the wall, no matter how dire, feels like a victory.

As the narrative hits its stride and that conflict between soaring ambition and crushing reality becomes almost unbearable, you begin to realise why this story couldn’t have been about any sport except climbing. In climbing, the crux is the hardest moment of a route, a turning point between triumph and defeat that requires total commitment in the face of uncertainty. It is the cruxes then, both on and off the wall, that are the heart of this remarkable novel – all those little moments where success only comes from a conscious choice to be brave.