Forty minutes ago, E, the man I’ve been dating, the very real man who is not a figment of my imagination nor made up from a rich tapestry of my wants and desires but a hands-on, let’s be in this together kind of man, took off with a friend and their guide for an all-day backcountry climb. I am signed up for a novice ice-climbing class that starts at nine thirty and am trying to rally the nerve to put on my gear and step out of the car.
But it’s warm inside the Subaru and cold and scary out there. The guys will be gone at least eight hours. There’s no one to audit whether I go to the class or not. I could simply imply that I went and spend the next few hours scouring the adorable little town, drinking hot chocolate, petting the friendly dogs that seem everywhere, and try to stay warm.
Or I can gear up and go see what’s what.
You would think that I’ve done enough crazy-ass stuff in the past few years that nothing I might undertake would really surprise me. That said, I’m still terrified of heights and until a few months ago would have sworn I’d never embrace any sport that involves heights and massive gravity consequences. Summits of any kind make me vertiginous, producing enough sweat to penetrate even multiple layers of clothing. My daughter, Hope, has been trying to lure me into skydiving with her for two years. But so far, no go. I can’t get over the fright.
And yet, I am here.
E’s unlike the other men I’ve dated in the two and a half years I’ve been single: the cop who lived on a sailboat, the surfer who built hotels, the college professor who was into photography. We clicked in a way that was new for me. Thus far, everything has been amazingly easy between us. I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing, but I like the fact we share a love of outdoor sports and what others might term “extreme” activities. When I told a friend about him and how well things were going, explaining the backpacking, hiking, and trekking plans we were throwing around, she laughed. “He’s just like you,” she said, “only on steroids.”
Two months ago he got me to try rock-climbing. We went to Point Dume in Malibu where a ninety-foot cliff rises vertically from the beach. We’d climbed its sloping backside to its top and there clipped in fat locking carabineers that created bomb-poof anchors for the climbing rope. As part of standard safety practice, he tied me into the anchor bolts as he worked. The air was barely warm and the ocean breeze took a bite, but the day was gorgeous. The afternoon sun was starting to lower over the ocean and a wedding party was setting up on the beach below. A photographer snapped pictures of the bride against the rugged rocks and ocean. Peeking over the edge, I hoped I wouldn’t become a wedding crasher. I purposefully didn’t think about the climbing I was going to attempt once the anchors were locked off and the rope was played out. There was no sense wasting all that energy on anxiety when I was going to need whatever strength I might rally to actually climb.
But as I sat there watching seagulls and pelicans sail on the air currents, I made up my mind about a few things. First, I decided that unless necessary, I was simply not going to look down when I climbed. Whenever I look down from a height and see how far I could fall or catalog all the ways I might hurt myself, that’s when I freak out. I would just concentrate on moving up the rock face, one step at a time. Kind of like the way I’ve been navigating this relationship with E: not questioning what’s happening, not thinking about what I stand to lose or how badly I might get my heart broken. I’m just trying to enjoy the minute-by-minute experience as it unfolds, knowing that everything has its season and nothing lasts forever. Learning, as I have, to just take things one moment at a time.
Second, if the rock-climbing becomes too scary or if I decide it’s something I’m not comfortable with, I am going to speak up and stop. I no longer wish to participate in the “tap-dance for daddy” I’ve been doing all my life to impress men. No more. This will be my climb, if I do it at all, and E will have to accept me either way on my terms.
Back on the beach, I pull on a climbing harness for the first time in my life. Each leg goes through a loop of webbing that connects to the waist belt and the belay loop, the point at which a fist-size knot connects the rope to E, who will stay on the beach, maintaining tension on the rope to make sure I’m safe. If I take a fall or slip, his job will be to arrest the fall. He will do this by a technique called belaying—playing out the rope through a friction device on his harness as he watches me climb, prepared to brake my fall if I come off the rock.
My life will literally be in his hands.
I tighten my helmet and E has me repeat the set of verbal commands we’ll use to make sure we are always on the same page. I quickly realize that the rope is not just a safety apparatus but an organic thing that transmits subtle messages between climber and belayer.
Behind me, the wedding guests have begun to seat themselves, the ceremony about to start. My feet are squeezed into climbing “slippers,” soled with sticky rubber that, I assume, will cling to even the smallest nub or pocket in the rock. It’s a matter of trust. The shoes will adhere to the rock and hold me, but only if I believe they will.
I place my first foot and stand up, pawing the rock for a handhold. Then I panic and grab for the rope, grateful for this tiny grasp of security. But the rope is there only to catch me if I fall, E reminds me, not for me to climb. I need to let it go and keep my hands and feet on the rock face itself.
I find an edge to place my foot and push upward again. The tiniest bit at a time, I’m doing it. One foot, then the other. An arm reaches, fingers feel for a thin crack. My foot searches the surface for an indent, finds one. I rise.
I’m so busy focusing on what I’m doing, I don’t feel scared. E calls out directions: “To your left. Move your foot to your left.” I do as instructed, and like a magic door opening, a placement appears. I move up farther and feel a thunderbolt of excitement. For this moment, I am strong and capable. I’m doing something I never dreamed I could do.
I step up to a thin slab and reach. The ascent is far from effortless, still there’s no fear involved. But then, about thirty feet off the ground, my arms start to tire and my quads shake. I can’t find the next foot placement. I’m stuck and I don’t know what to do. I’m certain there’s no way I can go farther.
“Just a couple of inches to either side,” E calls. “Just move and you’ll see a way.”
I don’t want to let go of this thin grip I’ve already got. Though it’s tenuous, I can’t let go even if it means I move up to something more secure. He keeps urging me to take a step. Tentatively, my fingers begin to scour the granite. The ocean is beating right below me but it’s nothing compared to the pounding of my heart.
Don’t. Look. Down.
When I don’t find anything of substance to grab hold of, I reach out with one foot feeling for a flake or a grainy pocket. I keep replaying in my head the first rule of climbing, to keep three points of contact with the rock at all times. But I’m ready to give up. I believe I’ve reached my limit.
And then it appears, a tiny notch for my right foot. I push forward, moving up, and up some more.
Don’t. Look. Down.
Like motorcycling. Like scuba diving. Like outrigger canoeing. Like entering a new relationship. Like learning a new language or writing a book or painting a landscape or writing some music. Don’t. Look. Down. Keep climbing. Hold tight to that wonderful rock that beckons.
I keep ascending, continuing to amazing myself. My arms and legs shudder from the exertion and the surges of adrenaline. But this is how we learn. We can’t be an expert the first time out. By the time I’ve climbed to our agreed high point, I’m spent. Instead of pretending I’m stronger than I am, I claim my limits, calling out to E. “That’s it for today. I’m ready to come down.”
He acknowledges and tells me to sit back in the harness so he can lower me, something I’ve never done and have never even seen someone else do. “Keep your feet wide and out in front of you,” he calls. I try to do as instructed, but clearly I have not understood. Because I have climbed
diagonally to the right, when I sit back, I have no idea the rope will pull me back to the left. I try to get my feet out in front of me, but fail. I get a harsh introduction to a new climbing term: pendulum.
Basically, I tumble and swing across the face of the rock. E immediately brakes my fall, but I’m free-swinging across the rock, slamming into the face, flipping nearly upside down, dangling. Fortunately my helmet absorbs the impact and I finally stop swinging some thirty above the beach. E directs me to right myself and spread my feet against the rock as he slowly lowers me to the sand.
My heart is pounding, my hands are sweaty. If I had known E longer than just a few weeks at that point, I may have burst into tears. I’ve had the wind knocked out of me, but mostly, I’m embarrassed.
He comes rushing to my side once I’m safely on the beach. “I am so sorry,” E apologizes over and over. “I should have kept you on course. I should have prepared you better for coming down. I would never endanger you.” He wraps me in a hug.
Other climbers come over to see if I’m okay. It’s quickly clear that I’m only a bit shaken and then the timbre of the conversation shifts.
“Wow. That was spectacular!”
“Are you trying out for Peter Pan?”
“The whole wedding stopped to watch,” someone mentions, gesturing to the wedding party where the nuptials have since resumed. He high-fives me.
Once the adrenaline passes, though, I realize that though I’m a bit bruised, I’m not genuinely injured. I tried something scary and survived the worst I could imagine—falling.
And I am okay.
In the following months, E takes me climbing at Red Rock outside of Las Vegas. Now that I’ve visualized that I can do this, I climb more fluidly and top out at a one-hundred-foot wall on the first attempt. A group of hikers pass below, stopping to watch and comment. I tune them out and keep my attention on where it needs to be: on the rock in front of me, finding a thin edge to support my shoe, then crimping an eroded knob with my fingertips.
Of course, knowing I have been safe in the past and able to do something scary doesn’t mean that I am ready to do what’s next. That’s what I’m thinking as I now put on my harness and crampons in the cold Ouray air, adjust my helmet to go meet my ice-climbing class.
Ouray is the winter ice-climbing capital of the United States, home to the world’s first dedicated ice-climbing park. Dozens of frozen waterfalls, refreshed nightly by sprinkler nozzles, create eighty- to two-hundred-foot-high climbing tests, winding through more than a mile of the Uncompahgre Gorge. The annual Ice Festival is a weekend extravaganza of competitions, exhibitions, and instruction with many of the world’s top ice-climbers. It’s basically a geeky Mardi Gras, just with frostbite.
I am obviously not among the elite climbers, only the rankest of beginners. Still, I know a few things. I know, for example, that vertical ice-climbing is accomplished with the use of crampons, pointy bear traps that clamp to the bottom of your boots, and ice axes, also known as ice tools. To ascend, climbers kick the front points of their crampons to create a platform on the vertical ice. They swing ice axes overhead to establish an anchor to step higher on the crampons. The strength of the ice is often surprising. Even if the axe pierces only a centimeter or so, that’s enough to support a climber’s weight. Again, the concept of trust is critical. It seems impossible that my ice tool, barely embedded into the ice, is enough to hold me—but it does. I’m learning to believe.
A young climbing pro, Anna Pfaff, teaches my class. Like most of the instructors, Anna has established a reputation as an ice-, rock-, and alpine-climber who spends months each year trekking and climbing in Nepal, Patagonia, and throughout the Rockies. My fellow students include another middle-aged woman who recently moved to the Ouray area to work on her ice-climbing skills, and three men, two of whom are surgeons. There’s a connection, I see again, between those who like to take risks. I shouldn’t be surprised when I learn that our teacher is also an ER trauma nurse.
Anna is patient and gentle as she explains the “syllabus.” First, we’ll climb just a small way using only our crampons without the benefit of ice tools at all. She demonstrates how, when the points of her crampons are securely planted, she can stand and rest comfortably along the face of a frozen waterfall. No hands necessary. She wants us to learn to trust our legs, to see how vital their strength is.
The next exercise is to climb with only one ice tool, to learn how to securely place the pick and to realize we can get by with less security than we think we need. That one centimeter of penetration is all it takes to hold me. I recall the massive sequoia trees and how one undamaged centimeter of bark running up the tree’s trunk is enough for it to survive and thrive. Soon, after we’ve worked on the one-handed technique, Anna says we now can use both tools.
She notes that men tend to overrely on brute arm strength. “Women, on the other hand, learn early on to trust their legs because they know they’re never going to have the same kind of upper-body strength.” Women tend to excel at ice-climbing because many have studied dance or possess excellent balance, poise, and flexibility. They can do moves that men will never be able to do. The only way a man can execute the same maneuvers is to compensate with brawn. But for newbies, that can be a mistake. Anna sees it all the time: Men start climbing and relying on their arms to pull them up. So much work! So much wasted energy! While at the same time, a much smaller woman will pass all the guys. “Don’t be one of those guys who think he can power his way up,” she calls out. “Use your legs.”
We pair off and belay each other. I work on my tripod position: two legs firmly planted, supporting me, one ice tool reaching up. Two feet, one arm. Two feet, next arm. When I sustain this rhythm, I move smoothly. However, I do not look down. The ice routes surrounding us are filled with other classes; about 40 percent of the students are women. This is one sport where men do not have much of an advantage. I am getting higher and higher. Punching the points of the crampons, it feels as if my feet have superpowers, holding me in place on the vertical ice wall. Little spurts of exhilaration keep me company as I climb.
The thing I have to monitor with ice-climbing (like motorcycling, parenting, dating, and life as a whole) is how anxiety can make things much harder than they need to be. When I get scared, I tend to hold on too tightly and deplete precious energy. The solution, many propose, is to relax, simply loosen my grip.
A climbing magazine article by Brian Rigby observes that stress itself is usually the culprit. I know from my own life that when I’m uncomfortable with anything (and this goes beyond ice-climbing), I experience a stress response, which in turn creates physiological changes. My heart rate and breathing increase. I switch from the slow-burning aerobic system, which runs primarily off stored fat, to the faster anaerobic system, which is primarily fueled by carbohydrates. My core body temperature rises and I sweat. Adrenaline provides sudden bursts of energy and mediates these changes.
If the only time I experience this stress response is at the height of exertion, then the adrenaline burst is productive and necessary. But my anxiety and fear elicit these changes long before I ever leave the ground.
Anxiety is the enemy. Increased mental stress causes this whole adrenaline-boost package to get to work. Novice climbers (novices at anything) begin a task with their systems already stressed, experiencing the same physiological state that more advanced athletes encounter only during difficult passages. Instead of moving smoothly through the easier parts of a climb and reserving my stamina for the tougher pitch, I waste precious energy.
This premature release of adrenaline causes my body to rely on carbohydrates for fuel, which in turn creates an increase in blood lactate that causes muscle burn. My endurance evaporates, my resolve to continue dies, I feel fatigued when, in reality, I haven’t yet done anything that demanding.
This is normal, I have to remind myself. It does not mean I shouldn’t continue, only that I’m spending a lot of energy on anxiety. And this anxiety sends m
y body faulty signals about how hard I’m working and creates the sensation of premature fatigue. Though my actual strength might be unaffected, the increase in body temperature signals me to slow down so that my core temperature can decrease. Everything in my chemical makeup tells me I need to stop.
The lesson applies beyond the waterfall of ice. If I focus on lessening my anxiety, then I will reduce all the negatives associated with it. My metabolism will edge back toward burning fat, my core temperature will cool, and I will experience the climb (or whatever else I might attempt) as a realistic interpretation of its actual difficulty and my abilities. I will live my life more fully.
So what are we to do about this? As newcomers to whatever activity we select, we cannot just will ourselves to have zero anxiety. But we can learn to recognize that anxiousness and try to manage and understand it. As I continue to face new challenges that scare me and gain confidence in one pursuit, that emboldens me in other realms. Nothing is wasted.
Plus, there are ways to manage the terror. First, I can identify the source of my anxiety. Am I afraid I’ll fall? Okay, I can practice falling on the route to assure myself that I’ll be all right. Does it freak me out that others are watching? Then I can climb when fewer people are around. Am I doing something I know I’m not yet prepared to do? If that’s the case, I can stay within my limits until I feel ready to move forward.
Next, I need to give myself permission to fail. The more pressure I put on myself to perform, the greater my anxiety. When I give myself permission to fail and remove my own self-imposed goals, I’m more likely to succeed. Lessen your expectations has become my new mantra.
Third, I can practice. According to a 2007 applied physiology study, simply repeating a climbing route just one time decreased anxiety by 16 percent. Repeating it numerous times reduces anxiety further. (I liken this to making pancakes. You know how the first one is always kind of thin and pathetic and not as yummy as later ones? My early efforts on any given day are early pancakes. As I get increasingly comfortable with what I’m doing, my ability to relax and let go of anxiety will increase.)
Harley and Me Page 25
