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.
RSS - Posts
Recent Comments