kernmantle

kernmantle

here I go again, giddy over a word.

it began with research into carabiners, which led to research into climbing ropes, which led me to attempt to understand rope construction. my head began to spin as I tried to understand the three-strand hawser rope, because “with the lay” and “against the lay” are unfamiliar terms, and possibly also because the accompanying graphic was from the 1943 Seamen’s Pocketbook.

I decided I didn’t really need to understand that design, essentially because the climbing world moved on.

the latest iterations of climbing rope are light years beyond those used a century ago, which has led to an increased number of climbers surviving falls. most significant was the discovery of nylon, and its introduction into climbing rope, adding elasticity and strength. in 1953 the “kernmantle” design was born, brought to life by a german company, edelrid, and remains key to climbing ropes to this day; its mantle and core provide strength and stretchiness for dynamic—more elastic—and for static—less elastic—ropes.

I smile at the name for this design, yet its origin is not complex: the “kern” or core consists of nylon filaments which are spun into yarn, which is then twisted to form a ply, and then a few of these are twisted together, creating a bundle. several bundles form the kern. the mantle is simply a nylon sheath that is braided around the core or kern. ta-da.

I often think about the multitudes of people who have eased my path in this life. from safe climbing ropes to motors and engines to medical discoveries to electricity, to the convenience of grocery stores and internet shopping, to the gifts of companionship and camaraderie and support, I have benefitted tremendously, in ways I cannot even express, from the creativity of others who came before me.

if I can but pass along love and gratitude, is that enough?

the next move

the next move

my left toes wedge into a minuscule fissure in the rock face, and those on my right seek purchase somewhere, anywhere. a smooth, blue rope attaches to my harness with a figure eight knot and stretches upward against the rock face. it is held, far above and out of view, snug and secure, by someone who believes in me.

my right fingers grip a small knob of rock, and my left are jammed into a crack in the quartzite. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be here. I don’t believe in myself. I press my hips toward the wall of rock I’m climbing, look down at my right foot, and consider my options, what tiny dip might support my weight, what other way I might possibly adjust my body so that I can move up the cliff. I have nothing; there is nothing I can do. I shouldn’t be here.

but I am here.

what is my next move? I voice these words; the rock absorbs them. for a moment I am still. I repeat the words, and I calm. adjust my right hand, look down, see a possible ripple to which the edge of my foot might cling, pray, test then press down on my right foot, and release my left hand to move it up the crack onto an impossibly tiny but solid ridge.

what is my next move?

surveil, contemplate, test, advance. I don’t let myself look down.

when I reach the peak, there is a pause before my partner and I reattach the blue rope to our harnesses to rappel down what we just climbed. a scraggly, stunted tree sprouts from a crack in the rock and its leaves are effusively green, pliable, soft between my fingers. below us, a sea of pine, oak, aspen. purple and gold crags across the canyon, afire in the evening sun, are, at the moment, my equal.

trust the equipment, trust my partner, trust the mountain. trust myself.

trust that a next move exists.