Fundamentally, climbing is little more than a series of decisions.The most important decision we make is the "Who" -- the people we climb with. Climbing can be so intense that within a matter of hours, one's partner can assume one or more roles: teacher, student, therapist, lover, competitor, friend. Ultimately, your partner is also your savior because your very life is in his or her hands.
But there's a paradox: Despite the power of the partnership, climbers still have to fight their mental battles alone. Our rival is our own mind and body, and the face-off takes place in the vertical realm.Last weekend I climbed a five-pitch route in Colorado National Monument called (appropriately) Desert Solitaire. I got the "Who" right: Dougald MacDonald, editor-in-chief of Climbing, was my partner. He's safe, psyched, fast and fun.
The crux of the route involved a body-length of desperate climbing on crumbly rock, protected by tiny cams stuffed in sandy fissures. Dougald was out of sight more than 100 feet below me as I precariously clung to fragile ripples of sandstone. My body and brain challenged me to a duel.
Though I had the "Who" right, moments like this -- out of sight and sound of your partner, far into a scary lead, with gravity about to rip your quivering body off the wall -- are a deeply personal struggle imbued with intense loneliness. In those instants, even the best partner is incapable of guiding your psyche.
Do I go for it? Do I squirm out of my comfort zone and risk a safe but scary fall? Or do I concede defeat and hang comfortably on the rope? During the seconds I pondered this decision, my forearms flamed and my knees wobbled. I had to act immediately or else the decision would be made for me.
Just like that, it clicked: I mustered the courage to try really hard. I controlled my mind and outmaneuvered fear. I balanced, grunted and, more than anything, willed myself through the crux. A minute later, I was safely anchored to the belay.
The next day, I stood beneath Circus Trick, a boulder problem near Moab, Utah, characterized by a last-move dyno. Like no other move in climbing, a dynamic, or "dyno," requires total commitment. It's when a climber leaps from one handhold to the next, feet flying through the air. Think: Sylvester Stallone in "Cliffhanger," all-points-off jumping from one icy handhold to the next. My partners were the motivated staff of Boulder-based Climbing and Urban Climber magazines (I'd gotten the "Who" right again).
There's only one thing: I'm scared of dynos. I'd completed Circus Trick 10 years ago, but on one attempt back then I missed the dyno -- and the bouldering pad -- and crashed into the sand, nearly smashing my ankle on a rock. On my first try this time, I wimped out on the jump. No worries. I was just loosening up. I had two crash pads and a solid spotter. The "Who" couldn't have been better. But on the next try, I fell off again. And then again. Doubt crept in, and I suddenly faced my inner enemy.
I hate dynos, he said. Just try hard enough so that it looks like you're going for it. I was losing internal ground, and it manifested externally. I made at least 15 more attempts over the next 90 minutes, but I couldn't quite hang onto the finishing jug. The fight was over. Deep down in that lonely, soulful place, I just couldn't believe. But I didn't wallow in defeat for too long. The boundless encouragement of my friends cheered me up. And besides, Circus Trick didn't care whether I climbed it.
In the decisive moments we must dig deep, alone. But climbing partners and friends -- the "Who" -- are what make the solitary struggles worth fighting for.
Chris Weidner: Daily Camera
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