Confessions of a Reluctant Rock Climber

I took up rock climbing at the urging of my friend Fred. He had signed up for a class through SCMA (Southern California Mountaineers Association) and called every week to bug me about it. I had spent a lot of time backpacking and bagging third class summits in the Sierra's and was starting to develop an interest in ascending peaks with more technical routes.

I signed on and talked a mutual friend Andrew into joining. At first, I hated it. The course didn't focus on climbing, but rather on safety. I would attend the weekend workshops and go through the process - tying 8 knots under 2 minutes, cleaning a top anchor, rappelling with and without a device, prussiking up a rope and learning to rescue a fallen climber by extricating myself out of the system. We didn't do any climbing during the 10-week course. And throughout I would whine to Andrew, "I CAN do it, I just CHOOSE not too." Or utter "What is the point? I don't need to see what's up there." For the final we had to follow one of the course's leaders up a multi-pitch climb at Tahquitz - a beautiful 700 foot granite outcropping on San Jacinto.

Terrified and sure I would die, I mitigated my fears by choosing a climb that was easy, relatively short and low angle. Darrell would lead us up The Trough - a 5.2 four-pitch climb. From the start I just wanted it to be over. We moved slowly and I complained the whole way. At the top of the third pitch I think Darrell had had enough. He told us we would have to rappel down, that if we didn't we would be out here another four hours, hiking back to our cars after dark. I think he exaggerated the timing because he was done with my whining and Fred's fearful resistance. While Darrell set up the rappel - a double rope rap of 300 feet and 2 pitches - I remember looking down at the parking lot. Spotting my black VW Passat 1,000 feet below us, I made a silent pact with God: I promised him I would never climb again if he let me survive this day and return home safely.

With the confidence of my deal in place, I loaded the system, tied a backup prussik to the rope, waved good-bye to Fred and followed Darrell into the abyss. The first rap was 140 feet to a hanging belay. Tying into the anchor, I moved to the side and stuck my toes on the 2 inch ledge and tried not to look down. We were 160 dead vertical feet off the deck. Fred last, crowded onto our ledge. Darrell pulled the rope and set up for the final descent. When it was my turn, I finally took note of Fred: His face was ashen, his fingers wrapped tightly around the daisy chain anchoring him to the ledge. He whispered he would never climb again.

Halfway down, I decided to take in my surroundings - after all it was the last time I too would ever climb again. To my surprise I smiled. It was stunning. A bird sailed by just overhead as I said hello to a fellow climber sitting on a ledge 20 feet to my left. I took a deep breath and looked out towards the horizon and down at the snake of fire road on the slope below. I smiled again at the vertical world I hadn't noticed. Perhaps I had been hasty, I did enjoy the sport and I had chosen to climb.

Over the last 10 years I have pursued rock climbing and enjoyed it immensely. I have climbed throughout California - in Yosemite, Malibu, Joshua Tree, Mammoth Lakes, Big Bear, San Diego, Los Angeles and Tahquitz - and have also spent time climbing in Pennsylvania and Alaska. In years when my climbing is strong and consistent I even lead. And in years when my climbing takes a back seat to some other sport, I feel the pull of fear every time I tie in. Like today. Always nervous on my fist ascent, I move quickly to a spot where I stop and breathe. I look down and double-check my harness. I look back at the rock inches from my face and breathe again. Then I remember why I do this - the feel of the rock beneath my palm, the challenge of finding imperfections in the wall for the tip of my toe. I push through rediscovering my finesse and listen to the rhythm of my breath as I move higher - it's so base and time slows. The reward is always the same: Finishing the day dirty, covered in hard-won sweat and grime. Grasping a cold beer, hands caked with chalk. Swapping stories with friends. I get why I climb.