Feisty Repartee

Bouldering

Christina is taking a much-needed break at the moment and asked me to write a little something to fill in for her. I must confess, though, that it is a daunting task to fill in for someone, a friend and colleague, who is larger than life and as wonderful as life itself, and who is also quick witted and humorous. But, seeing her hobble in to work Saturday from the "beneficial" effects of massage led me to wonder about resilient ideas about the self, resistance to admitting of an experience that promises to challenge those defenses, and submission, and I don't mean submissiveness.

I had never rock climbed. I grew up under the shadow of one of the premier rock climbing regions in the U.S. - the Shawangunk Mountains in the Hudson Valley in New York, about 75 or so miles north of NYC. Not only did the rock climbers spidering their way up the cliff faces look like they were an impossibility, I never SAW myself rock climbing. Never imagined it. Couldn't picture it. Ipso facto, it would never happen, even on a camping trip decades ago at Seneca Rocks in West Virginia, well known then for rock climbing.

January 2005, San Antonio, Texas, and a meeting with an ex-Ranger and avid rock climber. My husband, Edward, decided that after all these years, he would try to tackle rock. Off he went to Enchanted Rock, a notable geologic formation, an orange/red granite bald-pated dome, and a mecca for rock climbers. Edward was hooked and our house quickly became festooned with carabiners, rope, climbing shoes, harness, rappel device, slings, runners, nuts, chocks, cams, quick draws, chalk bag, hexes, and tricams. Books on knot tying, magazines, and articles on extreme (read: insane) climbs litter every room.

Then in April I found myself nuzzling rock.

A good friend was visiting us from Japan. She had heard of Enchanted Rock, referred to by the cognoscenti as E-Rock, and wanted to see it, wanted to try climbing. So off we three went along with a bag of goodies containing three pairs of climbing shoes and a chalk bag on the absurd notion that I would meet up with rock. After hiking to the top of the dome, around the base, and up an exposed portion of cliff face that plunked me into the “scary zone” of acrophobia, Edward led us to the Dairy Farm, a group of boulders used for, appropriately enough, bouldering, which I was to learn, is climbing with just shoes, chalk, crash pads, and spotters on rock that usually no more than 30 feet high.

To be honest, even though we had talked of bouldering, I had agreed just to please my friend who had traveled several thousands of miles to visit. I didn't really think I would actually try it.

The time had arrived. I faced the rock. I listened to instructions. I reached out. I put a toe on a tiny nubbin that protruded from the boulder. I hauled my frame up. My hand inspected the boulder for another and higher nubbin. My foot waggled about in search of what might pass as a foothold. I repeated this action several times and, mirabile dictu, I had reached the top. The impossible had happened. I made the return trip down. Then, on to another boulder face with a different set of challenges, a layback, particularly counterintuitive since I was supposed to push away from the face with my legs while gripping the rock lip. Then onto a third. The nubbins here were negligible and the face was almost smooth. After a failed attempt and a whine of “I'm too tired,” we took off our shoes and prepared to leave. But, suddenly we realized the experience had not been memorialized. Back on came the hiking shoes, the camera was fished out of a knapsack, and we all agreed to “pose” as climbers.

I was first. I faced the boulder and posed. Then, quite without plan or intent, I found myself reaching, searching, hitching up the boulder. Another hand and foothold found but I was foxed by the paucity of holds. Edward then chaulked likely grab areas, I followed those, I “stuck” to the wall, and made it almost to the top. I came down.

I was exhilarated. I was amazed. I was pleased. I was exhausted. I was proud. It was tremendous. What had happened? The obvious is that I did something that I had loudly professed over the years simply would not happen, tried, and succeeded. The less obvious is the rock, warm and aromatic in the hot sun. On that boulder there was only the boulder. Full throttle attention to the texture and line of the rock. Full focus on locating a likely grab or foothold. No thought at all. Just feeling the rock, its curves, its jutting edges, and my legs and arms moving in conformity to its contours. I had to trust the boulder, trust my body, trust that Edward would catch me. The boulder demanded full and unreserved commitment and submission, an utter “nowness.”

I had finally experienced that hackneyed-into-risibility phrase, a Zen moment. I had studied Zen, practiced on and off in a temple in Japan for several years, but had before only glimpsed the sensation of entering that proverbial space.

As we were preparing to leave, we saw a large, green lizard scampering effortlessly across the very face I had inched up on. Added to the Zen moment was a deep sense of humility.

Humility, however, will soon be joined by humiliation once those photographs are developed, revealing embarrassing shots of a derriere wide enough to nearly fill the frame. Sigh.

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