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I'm on a 2 by 3-foot ledge meeting Death for the first time. The ledge isn't comfortable since the back wall overhangs the ledge a little, forcing me into a limbo stance. I've failed several times already to climb to the next ledge with no thoughts of consequence. Each time I've lost my grip, or haven't had strength enough to pull up. Looking down, I realize a fall will be fatal. Death buzzes in my ears and my vision tunnels down to the spot I've almost gotten introduced to at high speed. Suddenly I'm as convinced of my mortality, that I won't survive another attempt, or any other action, as surely as I've believed in my immortality to this point. In another life, I'll chuckle under my breath at tourons or gumbies like me, all the while doing my best to get them safely down.
Years from now, I'll know what I'm facing as a wide, laid back chimney. The back wall of the slot has cracks where it meets the sides. Jamming, chimneying, stemming, all these techniques don't occur to a 19 year old scrambler. Safer ground and my friend are just above. Death is nipping at my heels. I've never touched rock before, never 'climbed,' never thought about being a climber. Most telling, I never realized I was mortal. I've got to convince my arms to counter pressure the cracks for one massive heave up the overhang, but I just can't overcome the view of the rocks with my name on them. I'm facing the overhang, but my neck is cranked all the way round with eyeballs locked on those rocks.
My terror is in the cradle of traditional climbing. I'm visiting Idyllwild on spring break because there's nothing to go home to. I don't know about Suicide, Tacquitz, Royal Robbins, John Long, ropes, pro, or anything. I've read enough to know that K2 is much harder than Everest and think that's the one for me, but in essence, I don't know squat about climbing, nor am I aware that rock climbing exists. It'll be years before I realize what I missed in a year in southern California with no climbing but this scramble.
Learning that Death isn't just for graybeards is earth shattering for a teenager, worse when it's your death you're facing. My friend is gone, pressing on, never aware of my epiphany on the ledge. Intercollegiate athletes rip right up this section. Computer geeks don't. I spend virtual hours debating how to cheat past Death. I think it's impossible to climb down. It's surely worse than the seemingly trivial last couple feet to safety above. But I can feel my hands slip, arms fail, the start of the fall to rocks below. I'm frozen in place, stuck in a perpetual limbo, staring back at Death.
Finally, I move. The animal within saves me. Fight or flight surges adrenaline through my system. The counter pressure between my palms works, I pull myself up into a panicked beached whale on the ledge above. I'm physically safe, but that's not everything. Death fades back out of my awareness, but my spirit has been branded. I've lost something. All I gain is a vague uneasiness, which sets me apart from my cohorts. Teenagers are not supposed to know they can die. I bury the knowledge as deep as I can.
The next day, my friend solos (I don't know to call it that) 60 feet up a cliff. He slips, but catches his finger on a pink quartz crystal. We find 'professional' climbers nearby to rescue him. They freak out at what he's done, but quickly act to save him. They have plenty of strange gear, ropes, etc. None of it impacts me. I don't get interested in their stuff, or why they're here. They ask, 'your eyes are really dilated, are you guys on drugs?' No, more like asleep at the wheel.
Six months later I've switched schools. Colorado Springs is another hotbed of climbing, and again I'll miss years of potential. For no reason, I join the Mountaineering club. They run a freshmen outing to Garden of the Gods. Somebody puts up ropes, ties us in, and belays us. I do nothing but show up in sweats and sneakers. I climb all three top ropes they've placed, one of them a 5.7, in court shoes. Death doesn't show up, but neither does my awareness. I never question the safety of the anchors, belay, or gear. I don't touch rock again for 3 years. I never return to the Mountaineering Club.
It's 1991. Monte and Will invite me top roping. I ask what I need. Before I arrive in the Garden, I've bought 15 feet of webbing to tie a harness, a locking carabiner, and the most expensive climbing shoes (Asolo ElDorados) on the market. I don't know it yet, but the guys at Mountain Chalet expertly advised me in every decision about sizing, brand, etc. I will grow to trust them implicitly as I drop a majority of my paychecks in their store. My future wife, then girlfriend, comes too. She's helped me pick out the gear, but has less knowledge or experience than I do.
In the Garden, we start with harnesses. Take 15 feet of 1' webbing, place the middle on your right hip. Bring the webbing around your waist and tie a standard single overhand in front. Wrap the tails around your waist loop several more times on each side. (This forces the leg risers wide enough prevent turning into a soprano when lowered.) Take the two ends and pass them through your legs and then up your back between you and the waist loop. Each end goes up behind the loop, down over the loop, to the inside, then back behind the leg riser and finally to the outside. Wrap the ends around your waist as many times as you can. If centered on your right, the ends tie off on your left hip after two or three wraps around your waist. Voila, a swami belt with leg loops. I climb on these for almost a year before I buy a black diamond bod harness.
My shoes are so tight, I can't keep them on more than 5 minutes. I've sized them down until I couldn't get the next smaller size on. I then moved up ½ size. This is painful, but I'm assured they will stretch. They do, after almost a year of climbing. I use my locking carabiner to secure hip belays, or to clip into an eight on a bight for top roping. Clipping like this way saves time, but I soon decide the extra link is dangerous and stop.
Will and Monte scramble on top to set up the rope. After significant scuffling and shouts, they get it ready. They teach almost everything as they do it. I don't learn about anchors, but I do learn to tie an eight, tie the harness, and to hip belay. We jump right into belay communications. We top rope a climb that Monte, Will, and Wes have tried before, but no one has climbed yet. The crux is a funky mantle where your right shoulder is pressed away by a slight overhang. An easier arete is out left, but involves a significant pendulum. I try the funky mantle and fail. Barb tries the arete, decides she's had it ½ way up, and then pays the pendulum. She doesn't freak, but it's close. I'm not too psyched about the arete or pendulum. Nobody succeeds at the mantle. We even see our first climbing accident when Wes gets distracted while lowering Will. Will disappears into the brush at the base, then into a cloud of dust as he drives into the ground a little faster than he wanted. Loud cursing ensues, so we know Will's more mad than hurt.
Strangely, no success and a couple problems, but I'm now hooked. The climber within has awoken. I will spend significant portions of my life and paycheck focused on rock climbing. Sadly, it's not a universal enlightenment: while Barb continues to climb, it's mostly to spend time with me.
There's no good reason why I suddenly get the bug, why I bought the shoes, or why I even went. I'd been before, it hadn't stuck. Maybe it was learning the magic involved in turning 15 feet of webbing into a useful harness. Perhaps the fear of wasting my money on the shoes kept me at it. I'd like to think the camaraderie and experiences brought me along. However, deep down, I believe learning to belay and use the gear gave me hope. Hope to face the Death I'd foolishly summoned as a 19-year-old immortal.
Four or five years passed. I decided to top rope the mantle again. I went directly to where I remembered it, but the climb, heck the whole formation was gone. I hiked the Garden thinking I'd been mistaken, but nothing matched. Around that same year, I went back to Idyllwild, thinking to find that ledge. Again, I couldn't even find the location, let alone the scramble. Maybe, that's as it should be. My recollection of these turning points is too vivid. It's better to let the reality hide behind them.
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