Independence From Expectations

"You ready?"

Caroline is beaming at me.  I think she is possibly as excited about my first outdoor climbing experience as I am- and I am pretty damned excited.

"Oh yeah," I reply, and step over to where she is standing to tie myself in to the other end of the rope.

"Okay, so it's super important on this route to remember that even tho' you have to stretch for some of the holds, they are there," says Bryan, who has just come back down.  "Just reach out your hand and trust that the handhold will be there, and I promise you it will."

"Right," I say, trying not to think about myself groping helplessly for holds I can neither see nor feel.  This is not the gym, with technicolor holds jutting garishly out from a slate gray background.  There is no difference between the holds and the background, here, and the holds can be quite thoroughly camouflaged.  I comfort myself with the thought that Bryan isn't that much taller than I am, so if he can reach those far-apart, invsible holds, so can I.  Then I take a deep breath and assess the cliff face.  I can do this, I think.

"Climbing," I say.

"Climb on," says Caroline, her hands making the graceful movements that means she is taking in the slack from my rope.  I put one hand on the rock, and then the other.  One foot comes up, and then the next- and I am climbing.  I am climbing outside.

In the beginning I am nervous, and so my arms are too flexed, muscles straining; there is something about being on a real-live cliff face that makes a primal part of me cling as tightly to the wall as possible, good climbing form be damned.  As a result I tire quickly, which is embarrassing, but I try to have compassion for myself in this new incarnation of a beloved activity.  It helps that Caroline and Bryan are very vocal in their encouragement of me- and for me to take as many (long) breaks as need be.

Slowly I get used to the feel of it: the texture of the rock and grit sliding beneath my fingertips; the way that I cannot see a hold from below, but that I can certainly feel it; the smell of the sun-warmed stone as my nose comes close to the earth; the strange high-altitude stillness that is cut only by my harsh breathing and the occasional cry of a passing eagle.  I twist to look back over my shoulder and there is the Gorge in all of her glory.  At one point I take a fall, and as I swing serenely back and forth I look down and see that tiny white petals have fallen onto the dark green boughs of a pine tree just below my hips.  I reach out and stroke them before re-starting my climb.

It is strange- never once do I feel that I cannot do this.  I feel tired, I feel a pinch of fear, but I know that if I keep at it, I will finish.  And when I do finish, when I finally get to the top, grinning triumph like a madwoman, I am greeted by the tiny white flowers who had sprinkled their petals down below.  They smell like heaven, and I feel I have ascended.

Photo by Nathan, of course.