a newbie in climbing shoes
My feet were cramping, and my stomach was in knots. I clung to the hand-holds and felt the rough rock under my fingers as I craned my neck upward. It was five, maybe six climbing moves to the summit, but I knew I was done.
I’d always wanted to try rock climbing. It’s good exercise, well-suited to women in general and my build in particular. I figured it would be a good way to face down my life-long acrophobia and build self-confidence. Plus, it looked fun. Signing up for a class at REI was a no-brainer.
But when I showed up at the store in downtown Portland and saw the 27-foot climbing pinnacle, showcased in two-story windows looking out on a busy street corner, I felt my stomach quiver. All I saw was an opportunity to fail, publicly.
“Take!” I called down to the climbing instructor on belay. Suspended in the harness, I rested my feet flat against the fake rock and pressed my body away from the pinnacle. I flexed my toes inside the tightly-laced climbing shoes, trying to massage out the cramps. “I’m in real pain. I think I need to come down.”
“Maybe just take a break?” Maya called up from the other end of the rope.
I looked down, disappointed to find I was only about twelve feet off the floor. I shook my head, and she hit the lever on her grigri belay device.
“Okay. Lowering.”
I descended the short distance to the floor, and pulled off the climbing shoes before I even unhooked from the rope. At least there weren’t many shoppers in the store or on the street to witness my disgrace.
Maya touched me on the shoulder. “Relax a few minutes, then try again.”
I sat down and rubbed my feet. The shoes had been laced too tight, and my feet have been prone to cramping since I was a child. But fear — of heights, of public humiliation — was the real problem. Up on the rock, my hands were shaking and my mouth was dry. Not the good kind of stress.
The other women in the class took their turns in the harness. Barefoot, I paced around the perimeter of the pinnacle, watching them reach and pull themselves up the face of the freestanding climbing structure. One woman even made it up twice, ringing the bell at the top with gusto. Maya glanced at me in expectation. I checked in with my feet — still cramping with every other step — and frowned.
“Just not my night, I guess.”
I kicked myself all the way home. I’d told my friends about the climbing class, then had to email my humble report that I’d not even gotten half way up. Frustrated and deflated, I soaked my feet in a warm epsom salt bath, and rubbed lotion deep into my soles.
“Saturday,” I told my dogs as I put the cap back on the lotion bottle. “I’ll go back Saturday morning, and I’ll try again.”
Saturday morning brought the same queasy knots in my stomach before I’d even left the house, but I was determined. I refused to be defeated by a fake rock, no matter how big. I told my friends I was going to make that pinnacle my bitch, but in reality I just hoped to climb quietly to the top and then come home.
To keep motivated, I had House of Pain’s “Jump” on repeat on my iPod on the drive downtown. “I can do this,” I told myself as I walked into REI, bought my climb ticket and headed to the pinnacle. I tried to ignore the fact that I was the only person in line over the age of ten.
A five-year-old girl scampered up and rang the bell at the top in a matter of seconds.
“Is she part monkey?” I asked her father.
He laughed. “Fearless. Gets it from her mother.”
A boy named Carter took to the rock just before me. He got about ten feet up and froze. Even with encouragement from the belayer and his mother, he wouldn’t budge, and his face reddened with frustrated tears. When he was back on the ground and was unlacing his shoes, I edged closer and told Carter I’d gotten stuck on my first climb, too, but I’d come back to try it again, so maybe in a couple of days he’d want to take another crack at it. I don’t think he heard a single word, but his mother smiled at my attempted pep talk.
Then it was my turn. I stepped into the harness and balled my trembling hands into fists, then started climbing before I had a chance to get scared. I was about half-way up when I felt the familiar twinge of panic. I distracted myself by making conversation with Joe, the belayer below.
“You get any other climbers over 30?”
“Saturdays, it’s mostly kids.” Joe watched me climb higher and took up slack in the rope. “During the week, we get more adults.”
“So I’m not such an anomaly.” I tried to laugh, and tried not to look down. I reached as far as I could and grasped the next hand-hold with just the pads of my fingertips, then used my legs to push upward against a rock feature I just barely held with my big toe. Maybe I was getting the hang of this.
“There you go!” Joe took up more slack. “Hey, look where you are.”
The pinnacle was narrowing, and I was running out of options. I glanced around for the next move, then realized I was face-to-face with the rope mount — and the bell marking the summit.
“Oh! Here I am!” I rang the bell, signaling that another climber had conquered the pinnacle. I saw a small crowd of second-floor shoppers looking up at me, smiling. I waved and began my descent in the harness.
I frowned all the way home. I was actually disappointed to have reached the top so quickly. Compared to the climb, summiting was a non-event, and I felt silly for having been afraid.
Sometimes it takes more courage to take a step back and re-assess. Maybe I didn’t reach the top the first time, but I still got into the harness — and I came back to try again.
Seven months later, I joined a climbing gym, befriended more experienced climbers and started taking to the rock several times a week. I’m still afraid of heights and still have lapses in confidence. Sometimes I literally fall on my ass. I’m no rock-climbing goddess, but I’m getting stronger. I’m caring less about other people seeing me fail. I trust the rope and reach a little farther. I breathe when I’m nervous. And I don’t lace my shoes too tight.
