aka, if you really love climbing, you climb despite all these things and more
after Sei Shonagon’s “Hateful Things”, written a long long, long long long, time ago
I wrote this short essay in response to a prompt in some writing workshop or other that I did a while back. It is also an attempt at “irony” or “humor.” I have sent this out to various publications to no avail, so I offer it to you here for your reading pleasure. I really, really like this one. I think it’s fun.
Be careful what you eat for breakfast when out climbing. There is nothing worse than having to relieve your abruptly troubled bowels when your harness and your climbing shoes are on and you are tied into the rope. Was it the hard-boiled eggs or the maple and brown sugar instant oatmeal? It takes time to untie, unbuckle, and remove that stuff. It takes time to find a private spot to do your business in the great outdoors of a likely busy climbing area. It takes time to dig a hole. It takes time to comfortably situate yourself and aim. It could take more time than you actually have. If this doesn’t go well, it could completely ruin a climbing day before it even gets started… and a pair of underpants.
~*~
The worst is when you start up a climb and then realize you have left all your quickdraws1 on the ground. Hopefully, the rope is clipped into the first bolt already, or now you have to climb down, or worse yet, jump. Hopefully, you won’t hurt an ankle, knee, or back.
~*~
Here come the dogs, barreling right towards you. This one jumps up and licks you. That one noses through your stuff for food and steps muddy paw prints all over your favorite hoodie— is it the same one that blew by you on the trail earlier and almost knocked you to the ground? Yet another one prances happily on your rope, wanting to say Hi! to you while you are trying to belay. You glance around wondering, Where is this dog’s human? Eventually you do hear the people coming, because they are hollering the dog’s name over and over again, trying to get them to Come back here right now, Rocky! C’mere boy! They finally arrive in person, somewhat more aloof compared to their furry ambassador. You try to pet the dogs while steering them away from your stuff, saying Oh hey there, cute puppy! No, no, bad doggy. Normally, you like dogs, but when an unknown dog is not on a leash, it’s hard to just assume, this dog must be friendly! This dog is cute, so it’s fine! Granted, most people are apologetic for their dog if they are too exuberant, and they try to grab their dog before any true damage is done. But you’re always afraid there will be the one dog, just following his nose, that brazenly runs up and eats the sandwich right out of your young kid’s hand, your young kid who happens to be terrified of dogs even when said dog doesn’t run right up to them with their scary looking teeth, your kid who would be scared even if the dog were laying down calmly, one hundred feet away. You appreciate the apology, really, you do, but it doesn’t un-terrorize your kid. So when the dogs come running in, as a parent, you kind of have to assume that all the dogs are going to be like that one unleashed, sandwich-eating dog, and then you feel like the bad guy when you ask the dog(s)’s person, maybe with a tinge of annoyance in your voice, Would you mind leashing your dog(s), please? And then you feel like you also need to apologize, Sorry, my kid is just really, really scared of dogs. It seems like this leaves everyone with feelings of disgust — well, at least one parent is left feeling this way and assuming everyone else harbors similar emotions.
~*~
You are en famille at Beauty Mountain, New River Gorge, on a rare— now that you are parents of young-uns— weekend-long camping and climbing excursion. You have warmed up your body and fingers well on a couple of easy rock climbs. Right now, though, you are just sitting there, in an awkward position in your ancient, lopsided Crazy Creek camping chair in a pile of leaves and dirt and pine needles, back propped up against the trunk of a tree, with your toddler finally passed out, head lolling, rosy-cheeked, sweating in your arms. You were ready to attempt that project route you have been waiting to try for a long time— since the last time you were able to be outside, which feels like eons ago. You don’t get out much these days. But your toddler had been pitching fits all morning because he hasn’t napped at any point since you’ve left home early yesterday morning, and he didn’t sleep well last night in the tent. You are too afraid to pass him off to his dad because the poor kid might wake up. And then, poor everyone else. You are already getting looks from the other climbers in the area— even their dog is better behaved. The worst part is that you feel a deep, shakey weariness beginning in your shoulders, biceps, forearms— holding him is going to make you too tired to climb hard when his nap does finally end. You sit and stew in bitterness that your climbing day is probably ruined. But on the flip side of that emotional coin, you are also happy he isn’t screaming anymore. It’s so quiet and peaceful. You tell yourself to stay in the moment and not wish it away because the kiddo laying in your arms, still and rosy-cheeked, is beautiful. Remember, he isn’t going to want to take naps while you hold him forever. Someday, when he’s sixteen, say, he might not want you to hug him or, for that matter, even look in his general direction with love in your eyes. You try to be thankful that babies are very sweet when they are sleeping and that your climbing arms will be strong enough to hold him for an hour— but please, for the love, no longer than that.
~*~
You occasionally find yourself too scared to climb. At random inconvenient moments— like in the middle of a rock climb— fear creeps up on you, slowly but surely, and then sits, buzzing like an angry Yellowjacket, in the space between your ears. It makes it hard to think or breathe, much less move. Then you have to ask your partner if he’ll finish it. He asks you if you’re sure, and when you holler a little too loudly, Yes!, he gently, if not kindly, lowers you to the ground without saying a word. He doesn’t say, It’s okay, I totally wanted to do this one again. He also doesn’t tell you how much he didn’t want to have to climb this one again. But no matter what you still feel defeated. You feel self-induced shame when you cannot finish a climb yourself. It means you’re not strong enough, and if you’re not strong enough, it means you’re weak. You tell yourself, It means I’m a weak woman, a weak person. This self-induced shame can be paralyzing. It can make you want to quit climbing. It usually makes you cry too. Self-induced shame is the worst.
~*~
One of your young offspring is belting out the ABC’s somewhere nearby while you are in the midst of topping out a boulder, and your friend, who is spotting you, yells at him to, Please be quiet! Can’t you see your mom is trying to climb? You aren’t sure which is more distracting. You’re really glad your little guy finally knows the ABC’s though, now that he’s eight.
~*~
You’ve been doing tons of pull ups in preparation for your climbing trip. Now here you are at the feet of the enormous and snowy Sierra Mountains outside Bishop, CA, working on a stout, powerful boulder problem that makes you feel like all the pull ups have paid off. Then your husband, who has completely given up climbing for the past 18 months to focus on racing his bike, tries a problem on the same boulder that is three times as hard— and does it, first try, without working on it at all. This proves he will always climb harder than you, no matter what; there’s nothing you can do about it. You feel the sharp bite of envy coupled with resentment and the tiniest puff of hatred for him right then. It’s probably fortunate you aren’t on the top of the boulder with him harboring these dangerous feelings. The tiny cloud of hatred quickly evaporates though because he looks really good when he is climbing. You remember that watching him climb is what made you want to try climbing in the first place. Watching him climb inspired you to get better at it when you were still a weakling “noob.” Watching him now makes you want to kick a little dust into his sparkling, gray eyes, sure— but it makes you want to try harder too. And he’s your favorite person to go climbing with in the whole world.
~*~
When climbing a route, it isn’t advisable to let go in order to shoo bugs away. So when biting flies or mosquitoes begin to land on you, you have to suck it up and let them. Hopefully you are so enthralled with the rock climb that you don’t notice all the mini feasts happening until you are back down on the ground. On the ground it’s safe to shoo or scratch with both hands. But that’s when you’ll feel it; all the bug-munching that happened on the exposed skin of your back and arms and calves while you climbed will make itself known to you. And it will drive you mad.
~*~
When people smoke in beautiful climbing areas, it kind of ruins the environment. This coming from an ex-smoker who understands the desire to smoke, and who is still enticed by the smell of it, sometimes— but never when climbing. What’s worse than being on a climb and breathing hard when someone below lights up a cigarette, and the smoke wafts into the very air you are desperately sucking in? Being on a climb when someone lights up something else. Then, not only is the air you are breathing extra heavy and stifling and very stinky, it also makes you feel a little lightheaded— and extremely hungry for Doritos.
~*~
A climber wants their climbing partners, friends, people, to call out occasional words of encouragement. A climber wants to hear, You’ve got this! or Allez! or Go for it! or better yet, Don’t forget to heel hook! Climbing isn’t golf. But sometimes the words are used at the wrong time, or too often, or just are not what should be said. Like “calm down” for instance. Please, do not yell Calm down! at a climber. It does not help them calm down, if, in fact, they need to calm down. It actually makes them want to yell, No! You calm down! right back. Or it makes them feel like they weren’t as calm as they thought they were, and now they definitely aren’t calm anymore. Or sometimes all the people watching the climber are yelling different things at the same time, and it’s just a lot of noise, and the person climbing is already stressed out and kind of high off the ground. Or they are each shouting out a different direction the climber should go, and the climber gets confused and goes the wrong way and falls. Maybe climbing should be more like golf.
~*~
The worst is when you climb through the red-point crux of a rock climb (Yes!) only to fall later on an easier move because your insouciant foot slips (Noooooooo!). It’s so horrible when this happens that it can actually make you want to give up climbing forever. Or at the very least scream Motherbleeper! at the top of your lungs before trying again.
~*~
Rain and climbing do not mix. When rock is wet, it’s slippery. Sometimes, though, you have to defy the weather forecast of scattered thunderstorms and go climbing anyway. Especially if you live on the east side of the US. What’s the worst that could happen? One of those scattered thunderstorm clouds could zero in on you and dump a bunch of precipitation all over the cliff when you are in the middle or near the top of a route, and the hard moves are still ahead of you. Well, getting struck by lightning while you’re up there might be worse.
~*~
It’s your favorite time of the day. The sun has lowered behind the hills and is no longer harassing you with its heat or casting strange shadows. The texture of the rock is easier to read. A breeze cools the sweaty parts of your body. The cicadas buzz languidly. The crickets and the tree frogs begin their evening songs. But all at once it is hard to see. Damn, you have climbed too long, too late. By the time you reach the ground, twilight has set in and the shadows are deep. You pack up all your gear and throw it on your back to start the hike out, but now the woods are indecipherably black even though the sky still glows. The stars peek out but do little to light the trail. It would be really convenient if you had your headlamp, so you take your backpack off and dig through the pockets looking for it. As you are searching, alas!, you remember: your headlamp is sitting in the center console of the car. You will have to hike out in the dark. You hope you won’t accidentally step off the side of the trail in that one spot where it narrows and drops off ten feet into a shallow creek. That would be the worst.
~*~
The weekend of climbing is over and you’re driving home. You’re exhausted; you’re holding the steering wheel with only two fingers and a thumb because the skin on your hands feels so tender and your fingers are claws; your forearms, elbows, and shoulders are jelly-like and crying out for total inertia; your brain is fried. But these aren’t the worst parts of the end of a climbing weekend. The worst is that your body would rather be dead asleep at the moment, but thoughts are twirling, playfully, a little obsessively, around the crux move of that last climb. You can’t stop wondering why you couldn’t do that move without falling, why that move felt so awkward. Your eyes are open and you appear to be paying attention to the road and the cars you are systematically passing, but your mind is back on that climb, back at the crux move, feeling your fingers crimp those credit card edges again, feeling your foot come up to that tick-marked2 hint-of-a-divot, feeling your butt stick out too far and throw you off. And so mentally you try again; you visualize other options for your right foot— maybe you missed something. Your inner eye spots another foot hold that is lower and smaller than what you had been using. Eureka! It’s barely a wrinkle, but you know it will be just enough. When you re-imagine the sequence with that new foot hold, you can actually feel the difference it will make in your body, right now, at this very moment, though you are sitting in the car driving home. You can feel what it will do to your hips, that your butt will remain an unmoving fulcrum, if you use this newly discovered foothold. Damnit! you yell out loud, smacking the steering wheel to the dismay of your sore hand, startling your sleeping passengers. I want to go back! And so this is the worst thing about climbing: when it comes to an end— for a week, a month, a year?— and all you want to do is go back and try that move one more time.
