Why I enjoyed rock climbing

I wasn’t supposed to go. She’d asked me on a whim, inviting me to go to dim sum, and then explaining that everyone else would go rock climbing afterwards. The two of us would go somewhere else—Borders, perhaps. She wasn’t allowing herself to think about rock climbing, and it was my responsibility to make sure she didn’t talk herself into it.

We decided to accompany the group to the health club. We’d stay with them until the rest of the people coming trickled in, and then we’d leave. I sensed the danger as soon as we found the building. There were amazing pictures posted on the walls of daredevil climbers, and a video of professional rock climbers played in a loop on the TV. The danger I felt wasn’t the danger of falling—it was the danger of being coerced into doing.

There were two rooms – a big one with ropes and about 30 people already scaling the walls, and a smaller room with fewer people. We’d find out that the smaller room was called the boulder room, the kiddie version, where people would attempt various levels of walls without ropes. In there, we would see a pint-sized girl swinging on the wall at an astonishing height, her hands chalky and her feet sure. Her calm demeanor amazed everyone.

My friend grew quiet as the rest of the group put away their things and started stepping into gear – climbing shoes and a ridiculous harness that made me think of cowboys. Then the employees started baiting us. “Scared?” they’d ask, daring us with their eyes. I shrugged it off, prepared to walk away, but I watched my friend’s forehead knot up more and more by the second.

“There’s a smaller room,” the employees added, “if you don’t want to climb the bigger walls.”

She finally came over to me and asked me if I wanted to climb. “Not really,” I said, although I wanted to say I wasn’t scared. I wanted to prove those guys with smug smiles and long hair that I totally wasn’t scared, but I couldn’t do that without actually climbing a wall. “I can’t afford it,” I added, as an excuse, which was true. Her eyes lit up; she’d found a way. “I’ll pay for you,” she said.

“But you need that money for books,” I pointed out. She shrugged that off. Somehow, we managed to work out a plan – I’d pay her a quarter per week for the next ten years. “Fine,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

I was definitely not dressed for climbing, wearing jeans and a tight tank top underneath a sweater. That tank top would get me into trouble later, revealing too much skin at awkward times and resulting in one of the guys in our group asking for my phone number (he never did call, thankfully).

The first wall defeated my friend. She got about a third of the way up, but it was just a difficult wall. After texting someone, our guide finally decided to find us a different wall. Once he did, it was my turn to climb. The first thing I realized was that jeans are not suitable for climbing walls. The second was that next time I go rock climbing, I’m wearing a leotard. I made it to the top, fairly easily, touching, with trembling hands, the bar that held my rope, wrapped around it twice.

“What do I do now?” I called, looking down to see the skin exposure, and hurrying to rectify the situation. They got me down, and I remained embarrassed for the rest of the night: all four hours worth. My friends made it up the wall easily, as well, and then our guide pronounced some sort of mutter over us, probably thinking that we were going to kill each other since we couldn’t remember the terms, and then he left. We were belay certified. He’d texted the entire time, pulling out his phone when he thought we weren’t looking. He was quick to show impatience when we slipped up, but even more obvious was his complete disinterest in being there. I made fun of him later, when we were in the boulder room, pulling out my imaginary phone to send a text: “Sorry we’re that boring.”

Of course, I hadn’t helped matters much by saying “ondalay” instead of “on belay,” but the guy had no sense of humor.

We fooled around in the boulder room for a bit—well, the guys in the group fooled around. My friend and I stood around for most of it, trying to garner the courage to climb a wall without the security of a rope. We found an easier trail, and she went first. Then it was my turn. It wasn’t that high, and when I made it to the top, I decided to jump. In this room, softer mats were set up all along the walls, to make up for the lack of ropes. The instant I let go of the wall I regretted it. I smacked into the mat with a thud, and it scared the bajeeves out of me. I was surprised to learn that I wasn’t hurt after the initial shock wore off. It appears that fear is more of a disabler than actual pain.

Shaken, I declined to try any other small wall seriously. We managed to start some other trails, but didn’t get much farther. “Wanna try the big room again?” I asked, enviously watching the naturals scale walls with Spider-man-like skills. She agreed, and we went back into the other room to face our deaths.

We picked the wrong wall. It was her turn first, and without the guide there to make sure I didn’t mess up, I felt much less confidence in my abilities to keep the rope secured. She made it about half way up the wall, but then wanted down. She’d gotten scared.

It was my turn, then, and I started up the wall. I got stuck, and dropped into the harness. My weight held as I dangled off the wall. I wanted her to let me down, let me go, but the extremely uncomfortable harness, digging into my legs, had the reverse effect. I can beat the pain, I decided, and I grabbed for the wall again. What followed was the longest moment of my life. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t get past that point on the wall. My hands were too slippery. I was too weak. My feet weren’t staying where I wanted them to stay. Then I started hearing snide comments. Whether they were about me or not, I had no way of knowing. My face was in the plastic hand holds, and I couldn’t see anything. But the comments were mocking – some saying that I—or someone else—couldn’t do it. Others were more encouraging, but the mocking comments stuck in my head. I wanted to prove them wrong. I flung back my hair – which was loose, because of course I didn’t have a hair band – and I tried again. And again. And again. And somehow, I managed to break through, and get the next hand hold, and the next, and soon, I was reaching for that metal bar again, grazing it with just the tips of my fingers.

The air gushed out of my lungs in a huge sigh as I sat back into the harness, and then I turned to look down and ask her to let me descend. I’d done it—I’d finished—and somehow, it was suddenly and singularly one of the most difficult and gratifying things I’d ever accomplished.

The next day, I had the bruises and the aches to prove it.