Whether you head for Joshua Tree, Thailand or any other rock climbing mecca, seen from a distance the rocks appear as impregnable as a fortress and one might wonder how anyone could scale them. That's just what I was about to do—kiss cold granite on a sunny Sunday afternoon.
Why was I about to subject myself to such a task? To harness my focus, to achieve a seriousness of purpose that seems to decrease with the thermometer every winter season. To feel the warm sun on my back and the cool rock on my belly, to flex my cold-stiffened fingers out of their winter cramping, to flex my mind.... It seemed like the perfect exercise for reviving my spirit out of the winter blues.
After slipping on the ballet-like shoes and preparing for my ascent (mostly mental preparation), my guide scales the rock like Spider Man, attaching a rack of carabiners, the small snap-links whose job is to"snap" me up from a sudden fateful plummet.
He yanks on my harness and rope double checking the loops and figure eights and after patting me on the head, calls out the first rule of climbing—"on belay" signaling that my line is securely fixed and that he, my belayer, will keep a snug rope on me as I climb. The moment has come.
All instruction and encouragement from my fellow climbers has vanished. It is me against the rock—literally. I peak up from my oversized helmet hoping to see some sort of carved out stairway above me that I could easily hop up. Nothing but an apparent smooth vertical wall. I couldn't hear anything but my fear. I wanted to reach for reassurance. I wanted to hear about astronomical tensile strengths, about how the rope can halt a free-falling moose, how it can't break under any circumstances...."Go crank off pull-ups from your fingernails," my guide yells. Great. Just what I wanted to hear.
After a fairly easy 20 feet or so, I find myself pasted to the rock at the height equal to an average Manhattan brownstone. My right hand grips a shelf as wide as a window ledge. My feet are stacked on top of each other with the toes wedged into a vertical crevice known as a jam crack. My shoulders ache from the effort so far - a classic beginners error of relying too much on your upper body strength. I must remember to use my legs to lift me higher and support my weight. Now I face a difficult moment. I need a good left handhold to climb higher. With a balletic sweep of my left arm I try to reach a small hand hold. It's too high and there doesn't appear to be anything else to cling on to.
Fear begins to paralyze me; a queasy panic. The fear is real, even though I am entirely safe. If I fall, I'll be caught instantly by the rope tied to my harness. But fear is a primal reaction , an old ungovernable urge, and even as my conscious mind tells me there's nothing the matter, my right leg starts twitching uncontrollably, a phenomenon climbers call sewing machine leg.
I remember hearing once that the sport of climbing is 90% mental. I could get past this, I thought. A simple shift of mind and a cock of the hip and—Yes!—I can reach a few inches higher. I get as good a grip as my fingertips will allow and haul myself up.
I feel the fear draining away. In its place, a wave of satisfaction breaks over me. It begins with a deep sense of physical well-being, like the after effect of a great workout. And then a wave of psychological well-being - the high that comes from having stood toe-to-toe with fear and having found the discipline to move past it. And now, the task of tackling New York City winter awaits. I feel prepared.
Rock Climbing
