Afraid of Spiders
My feet shift nervously on the small, flat hold below me. My toes are supporting a lot of weight, way more than they should be. I drop my ankles, wedge my shoulder a little deeper into the crack, and I try to relax for a second.
“It’s 5.8. Find the 5.8 moves.”
It was all fun and games before the crux.
I see a chalked up horn, more of a sidepull, behind my head. The footholds really peter out here. Until this moment I had enjoyed fantastic climbing on relatively great holds. But now, that sense of security is gone. As I lean hard into this nine inch crack to my left, I scout out several paths upward. I could try to shove my leg into this offwidth crack and shimmy up, but I have no hand or footholds for the right side of my body. I briefly consider trying to crawl into the crack and slither my way up like a squeeze chimney, but I can barely get my shoulder inside, let alone my head. I see what looks like my best option, a lieback move on that chalky, sloping horn requiring me to smear my feet on very flat, smooth sandstone.
Above this committing, insecure move lies more difficulty. I see a constriction above that looks about the size of my fist, but from this distance it’s hard to judge accurately. It’s also a weird constriction, formed by a big bulge on one side of the crack, which means the constriction flares out basically 360 degrees from the placement. If it’s good, I can slot a great fist jam while I get stable and then place a #3 in it. If I’m not so lucky, the move will be unprotectable and I’ll be forced to climb another ten feet or so to what looks like the next good gear placement. Scanning the terrain ahead of me I conclude that there will be no retreat; I am at the point of no return.
Climbing above this move would have committed me to finishing the route, regardless of difficulty or protection.
In different circumstances these conditions might not make me so nervous. I’ve committed to plenty of big moves and short runouts on Ontario’s limestone cliffs, which many might argue are far less secure both in climbing and gear integrity than the sandstone of the Red. But as I stand here, leaned into the gaping crack, I begin to assess my situation. Because of the roof below me, my last gear placement is a #4 cam placed about two-thirds of the way out the roof traverse. The spot the 4 is placed in is about two feet left of where the crack continues upward. To my right, on the face, is a flared horizontal pod. I manage to get a #1 and a #2 both stuck in the feature, but they are not inspiring placements. Both cam lobes gleam, exposed to the sun and decidedly not buried in anything I would call “secure”.
I try to visualize success as much as I can in climbing. I truly believe in the mantra of “visualize, then execute”. Creating a mental template of success can make or break big objectives. Like a road trip across the country, a good map will keep things running smoothly and avoid unnecessary complication or exposure.
But at times, visualizing failure can become a critical part of the process. I look down, and visualize a fall from three or so feet above my current position. Step one: assume those cams won’t hold. Although they held body weight, I’m not confident that my current placements are going to hold a lead fall. While they’re currently providing a slight sense of security, I do not intend to rely on them for protection should I move up. This means the next piece to catch my fall will be the #4 I left below me in the roof traverse. It’s a great placement, but it’s far down and to my left. If I fall from that high up, I’ll come down with a lot of force. I’m already too close to the ground at that point, so my belayer can’t afford to soften up my catch any more than it already will be. My momentum will swing left, directly at a big flat wall on the other side of the dihedral I just climbed up.
Believe it or not, this piece looks much better than the one I had up there.
I shift my feet again, and quickly tally my observations. My gear below me is not ideal, potentially creating a large pendulum swing into a wall. The gear next to me is marginal, untrustworthy even with two medium sized cams. And the moves above me are committing, cryptic, and to a gear placement that may or may not be any good. For those keeping score that’s Arachnid: 3. Patrick: 0.
Oh, and two weeks from today I’m supposed to be climbing 1000 foot routes in Yosemite. After years of waiting and dreaming, I had planned my pilgrimage. The idea of breaking my ankle today on a single pitch in Kentucky seems sacrilegious.
I call down to Julie that I’m going to downclimb a few moves, to see how it feels, before I pull the two crappy cam placements out. 10% odds are better than 0%, right? I squat down awkwardly, reversing the heroic pull that originally put me into this position. A couple moves later I’m down and back up, confident that I can retreat if I need to.
I look up again.
“How important is this?” I ask myself.
I consider my motivation for being out here. I’d come to Tower Rock to climb some old school trad lines, 5.8 and 5.9 routes graded back in the 70’s. Still a far cry from the notoriously “old school” grades of the Valley proper, but much closer than the selection of routes established after the turn of the millennium on which I’d been climbing on all summer with my clients.
The classic “Africa (5.9)” starting feature.
“You’re also racing John” my subconscious blurted out. And it was right. While I tend not to get competitive with my climbing, occasionally the idea of bagging a route before my friends do excites me. I’d had my eye on a 5.9 in Ontario all summer, and my good friend John Cottone had onsighted it just a few weeks earlier before I’d had the chance (and the mental game) to give it a go. Slightly disappointed, I’d figured that if I got up to Tower Rock and sent Arachnid before him, we’d at least each have a cool route to talk about all winter until the ice melts and we can get back outside.
My brain quickly computed these objective observations and returned a simple, yet unsatisfying, course of action: climb back down.
Our friend Arjun was hanging out with us that day, and he commented on the walk back to the car “What you did sounded a lot like this book I’ve been listening to. Have you read The Rock Warrior’s Way?”
I actually never have. My ex-girlfriend bought a copy, and I attempted to read through it but I found the text so dry and clinical, it couldn’t keep my interest. ADHD can be a superpower, but it can also be a disaster. In this instance, disaster. I’ve heard a lot of great things about the book, and fellow Detroit climber Lor Sabourin occasionally holds a clinic on the subject matter, but I’ve never read the entire thing.
Check out Lor’s film on YouTube, and take one of their seminars if you have the chance!
Arjun talked about how the book had completely changed his approach to climbing and fear. He’d learned how to separate objective difficulty and danger from subjective fear and uncertainty. “I liked how you looked at your situation, you decided there were three things that you didn’t like about it, and considered the future and importance of the climb before you made a decision”.
And by gosh, Arjun was right. Without having a specific system to follow, I instinctively found myself applying the teaching of this book. While the moves ahead were without a doubt intimidating, I did not consider this as a factor when determining whether or not to climb ahead. My subjective hesitations about the climbing and protection were filtered from my equation. I wasn’t backing off because the hold up behind my head was sloping and smooth; I was backing off because a fall there would have potentially catastrophic consequences on not just my body but, in a way, a decade of preparation and patience. I was able to point to verifiable, measurable risks and determine that too many things were not in my favor, and I wasn’t going to take the chance.
After all, what are friends for?
Arjun and I stop walking again. Behind us, Julie crouches to take a photo of a cool plant or some fungi. I turn back and look up at Tower Rock. That sideways frown sliding across my mouth again, I begin the uncomfortable but familiar routine of transmuting failure into experience. For a brief moment I am profoundly disappointed in myself. Then we turn again, talking about how beautiful the forest is up in the North Gorge. By the time we’re back at the car, all I can think about is how excited I am to get to drive through it one last time this year.
Let’s go climbing.
This boulder was much more interesting than my climbing.
