I stared up at the bumpy, timeworn rock face before me. The wall stretched up and away from me and curved out of sight at the top, concealing the anchor for the rope knotted onto my harness. Beyond, the clear sky was a brilliant shade of blue. I took several steadying breaths, trying to ignore the trembling in my hands as I placed them against the cool rock. It seemed odd that the rock should feel so cool on a day so warm, without so much as a breeze. I felt the anxiety manifest as a twisting weight low in my stomach and tightness in my throat, further preventing me from breathing steadily to calm myself.
“Don’t let go of the rope,” I told him, “I don’t want any slack.”
“I won’t,” he promised.
Nervous seemed such a plain, tame word for the jitters and second thoughts I was having even as I placed both hands lightly on the wall, gazing upward. Each new height came at the price of sweatier palms and a jackrabbit heart.
For the record, I’m terrified of falling.
I hate heights. I like the breathtaking views afforded by climbing up to some great hilltop or mountainside, but the fear of falling to my death or worse is infinitely more terrifying than the wonder brought on by a spectacular vista. The decision to begin climbing up the forty or fifty foot rock face in Stoney Point off Topanga Canyon was then, of course, one of the most foolish decisions I’d made. I chose to leave the safety of the perfectly good, stable ground beneath me for invisible handholds – really, finger-holds – on the wall in front of me. I made my belayer promise to keep the rope as taut as possible, knowing but not truly understanding the elasticity of that rope. Fear had kicked my adrenaline into high gear and I was sweating profusely, hands slick through the protective layer of chalk. I inched up the cliff face once more, listening only for the instructions: left foot left knee, right hand 12 o’clock, right foot right thigh… I never looked down.
Then I got stuck.
The longer I was stuck, the more I started slipping. The skin on my hands, too tender for a rock face, was slowly disintegrating. Blood and sweat began to mingle, forming a slick coat between my skin and the rock, preventing me from keeping my fingers clamped tightly. I couldn’t reach the next hold, and wanted to come down. As I turned to let my belayer know, my grip finally slipped and I dropped. Instinctively I clutched the rope that held me, though it was useless. My entire right side bounced off the wall as I spun around. The rope finally caught and my harness was yanked hard, the nylon bands digging into my hips and thighs. My throat ached. I took a breath, then another, and a third, breathing faster with every moment. I was slowly lowered to the ground, and as soon as my feet touched the nice, flat, safe ground, I leaned my forehead against the rock in front of me and closed my eyes. I could feel my whole body shaking. Never again, never again.
Voices broke through the panic and relief, telling me I was okay, telling me it was fine. I’d bloodied both knees, banged one pretty badly, and my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. They were a muddy mess from the chalk and dirt and sweat and blood. I was alive, though. Alive was good. I could manage with that. I sat down, giggling a little even though I wanted to cry. I was so confused and my adrenaline was through the roof, but I could at least breathe now.
I slowly peeled off the harness, with help, and watched dazedly as someone else from the group free-climbed up the face of the rock I had just failed. Freaking monkeys. And spider-men. No fear, no effort. I’d fought for every inch, and here they just waltzed right on up like it was as easy as breathing. Horrible, really.
It’s gotten better. I finally cleared my first wall a few months later, and then I really did cry - from relief, that time. The fear is still there, but I’ve fallen off so many walls now that it’s just about normal.
Have faith in the equipment, they’d said.
I do.