News from Jules | 10.31.2023 | Braving the Wilderness: Part 3
When my plans for Taos, New Mexico, fell through in mid-September, my best friend’s unconditional hospitality in Denver, Colo. became the third “ultimate” destination on my road trip. As luck would have it just two weeks after we parted ways in Wyoming, the open road led both me and the cute climber I met in Sisters, Ore. earlier this summer to the Denver/Boulder area.
It was as if the Universe was giving us a second chance to tackle a multi-pitch climb after our failed attempt in the Wind River Range. We had learned so much in the Winds—about trip and weather planning, gear management, communication, each other’s strengths and weaknesses—but we had yet to experience the more technical elements and endurance required for such a long, exposed climb.
Before the trip, I had climbed exactly one multi-pitch route.
Being off the road for a few weeks in Denver offered both of us the opportunity to stay put, rest up, save money, and prepare for the winter. Plus, plenty of time to play, climb, and learn a lot more about ourselves and each other.
That first weekend, we decided to practice on one of the Boulder Flatirons, roughly 1,200 feet of steeply sloping triangular layers of rock uplift that narrows into a point at its summit. They are considered relatively easy rock climbs (rated 5.0-5.2 on a scale of 5.0 to 5.15) given ample, large foot- and hand-holds known as “jugs.”
It was so easy that we saw many shirtless locals in trail running shoes casually scrambling up as they chatted with friends, while we put on our helmets, harnesses, climbing shoes, and gear, then both tied into our extra long rope.
In multi-pitch trad, the “traditional” way of free rock climbing, the lead climber places cams and nuts into cracks or holes that secure the rope to the rock wall in case of a fall, and the second climber removes or “cleans” the gear while ascending similar holds before finishing each pitch—a section of the climbing route between two belay points, often nearly the length of the rope. This is repeated as many times as necessary to reach the top.
With nine-plus years of climbing experience under his harness, my climbing partner easefully guided us up the flatiron in six pitches over three hours. Alas, we got a late start so while I climbed the last pitch, my climbing partner watched a beautiful sunset. By the time I too crested the top, the sun had been replaced with a full, dark orange Harvest moon beaming from a pitch-black sky. It was hard to see the horizon between all the twinkling lights of the Denver metropolitan area and the emerging stars.
As much as I relished the beauty of the night sky, my body immediately just wanted to go down. Looking down from the summit into an abyss of black, the calm confidence that carried me up the rock instantly switched to antsy anxiety.
We only had to rappel three pitches, then down climb a bit before scrambling to the trail, my climbing partner calmly remarked. What he didn’t know was that I hadn’t actually rappelled since mountaineering training during my first season of climbing—two years ago.
I knew I could do it.
But, I also remembered how stressful it was when the stakes actually felt like life or death.
Standing beside my climbing partner as he set the rope up to rappel first, I secured my personal protection to the bolt in the rock wall. The tears streamed down my face just like the first time I leaned into nothing.
I knew this feeling and I thought I had already conquered it.
There was something so primal knowing this thin piece of two-foot-long webbing between my harness and the rock—like an umbilical cord—was the only thing keeping me from falling into the abyss.
Where did the fear come from? Did I distrust the rock that had been there for millennia? Or my gear that was safety-tested by the manufacturers? Or my experienced partner?Or perhaps something deep down inside me that had nothing to do with climbing?
Regardless, I’m well-trained so my mind quickly took over following the safety protocols I learned from the Mazamas Mountaineering Club, like B.A.R.K. (Buckles, Anchor, Rappel device, Knots) and swiftly descended one pitch after another until my feet stood on solid ground.
Now I had climbed all of two multi-pitchs.
The following weekend, we met up with a climbing couple that I had met in Denver last November, to climb “Rewritten,” a classic six-pitch, 650-foot route (rated 5.7, or moderate to easy) that summits the Redgarden wall in Eldorado Canyon State Park that’s internationally known for its technical rock climbing routes.
The grey skies and crisp fall air—still only 39° by late morning—kept the crowds away but also froze our fingers as we organized the rope and gear at the base of what we thought was the route.
The plan was to climb in tandem, one team ahead of the other, on the same route. The local couple offered to go first. As the lead climber moved up the route, we heard a surprising amount of grunting before he fell on the crux, or hardest, move. Once he set up the anchor at the end of the first pitch, we all realized he had actually climbed a different and significantly harder 5.9 route. Alas, the gear was already placed so his fiancée had no choice but to follow.
“This is not what I signed up for,” she shouted as she too grunted her way up.
I had the same thought a few minutes later. With the other team far ahead and my own climbing partner high up on the wall and out of sight, I was on my own. There was an eery lonliness or abandoment, like I was no longer supported or looked after even though I was still physically tied to my partner.
Even though we had switched to climb the originally intended and far easier route, I simply couldn’t get a grip on the damp rock to actually get myself up onto the rock wall. One try after another my reach was too short or my shoes slipped and I came crashing back to the ground. On my fourth attempt, I rolled a rock over for a step up so I got a little higher, but once again I slipped and this time screamed as I fell through the air.
“You okay?,” I heard over the walkie-talkie but was crying and breathing too hard to respond.
Pain broke through the surprise and panic as I realized I had tweaked a muscle somewhere in my left arm, though I couldn’t tell how badly. We were barely five percent of the way up and I was already pooped. I finally sniffled “I’m okay” over the radio and kept climbing.
It was one thing to panic at the end of the flatiron climb the previous week when I could just burn through the rest of my energy reserves. It felt like a whole different situation to be so vulnerable from the very begining.
Alas, there was no way but up.
This was confirmed once I finally caught up to my climbing partner and learned that we had already passed any early exit options, so unless my arm was broken we needed to keep going the 500-odd more feet to the top. We swapped gear and he immediately started climbing again so that we could keep up with the first team.
While belaying him from below, I enjoyed the opportunity to rest as the throbbing pain in my left arm calmed down. The next, much shorter pitch went a lot smoother as I moved up the wall and cleaned the gear without stopping until I got to the chimney where my climbing partner got stuck for a bit—literally wedged in, backpack and all.
I said where I was over the radio, then heard him sharing suggested beta, or information, about exactly where to put my hands and feet. Well, this little elf didn’t need any help or have any trouble shimmying right up there.
He was still talking me through it as I popped over the ledge to where I’d heard laughing coming from earlier. After securing myself to the anchor and taking a seat on a two-foot wide rock ledge, I looked over at what we were about to climb. There was nothing to laugh about.
What I could see was a four-inch crack across the rock wall, like a gash across Frankenstein’s forehead, that intersected with another three-inch vertical crack going directly up the sheer rock face—and who knows what was after that.
Welp, at least I had climbed cracks before. Twice.
See photos from our multi-pitch climbs on Instagram.
My climbing partner gracefully moved across the traverse, hanging from one arm as he reached with the other for a protective device to cram into the crack and feed the rope through at one stop after another. Apparently with enough ease and presence to marvel at the sheer vertical drop to the Pine tree tops hundreds of feet below. And then he was off like Spiderman once again, quickly moving up the wall and out of sight.
Per usual, my mind scanned my mental files for memories of any other similar hard things I had successfully done before. I remembered my first time bouldering outdoors last summer in the ‘Gunks. It was much lower stakes since I was only five feet—not 350 feet—off the ground, but similarly, I needed to move across a long crack the length of the rock, essentially only hanging from my arms.
During the next 30 minutes or so while he climbed above me, I studied the gear placement and the shadows—inside the crack and on the rock face—memorizing how to traverse through the perceived danger zone as quickly as possible.
When it was time for me to start climbing, I had a game plan. I knew I wouldn’t have a hand free to press the button so I proactively radioed my climbing partner to ask for moral support before I started climbing. “Just keep talking to me for the next few minutes please.”
“Okay. Climb on! You got this, girl.”
Just like when we rappeled into the darkness the previous weekend, I felt my heart start to beat faster the closer I moved toward the edge. As if it was on autopilot, once again, my body moved swiftly across and up the crack while urgently cleaning one piece of gear after another without looking down. I was laser-focused on the task at hand. But, instead of feeling fearless like usual, I was flooded with fear.
My central nervous system was on full alert. After the first minuscule slip of my foot in the middle of the traverse, Cortisol shot through my veins while screams and grunts poured out of my body alongside the tears.
From his comments over the radio, as well as the encouraging shouts from the other team above us, I could tell my climbing partner thought I was still in the crack when I was well past it. Probably due to all of the noise that I was making.
In my panic, I didn’t dare stop, I just kept climbing.
But, I was barely breathing.
“Anxiety really boils down to overestimating a potential threat or underestimating your ability to cope with that threat,” according to Dan Harris, founder of the Ten Percent Happier Meditation App and retired ABC news anchor who’d had his own panic attack while on air.
I was doing both.
Overestimating the threat and underestimating my abilities.
The longer I climbed, the more fatigue set in, the weaker I felt. Seeding doubt and insecurity alongside the fear and the overstimulation.
We were incredibly high and the climbing was very exposed, but I think it was less of a fear of falling—because clearly I’d be caught—and more of a fear of being stuck with no one to help me.
Thus, trying to get through it as quickly as possible.
Amazingly, while one part of my mind was going haywire, another part was still trying to self-regulate. I heard myself start to repeat a Metta prayer out loud and my breathing immediately slowed down to the inhale-exhale tempo that I’d been practicing with that meditation for years.
Inhale: May I be free
Exhale: from inner and outer danger.
Channeling climbing legend Adam Ondra, I kept screaming, grunting, and praying my way up the rock face. My climbing partner held the rope so tight that I actually had to ask for some slack a couple of times so that I could extend my reach.
I was still hyperventilating when I finally made it safely over the ledge and secured myself on the anchor next to my climbing partner. With wide eyes, he could now see—not just hear—how much I was struggling.
After a lot of reassurance, guided breathing, drinking water, and a long hug, I finally calmed down enough to eat my half of the Oreo that he’d saved for me as a “try hard” treat. The first team above us was getting close to the summit block and we needed to get going.
I stood on the ledge for what felt like forever as my climbing partner made his way to the top while I watched the sun lower through the clouds into the canyon while wondering if we’d be rappelling into the darkness once again. I had plenty of time to start reflecting on what happened that day:
How I’d accidentally pushed way past my “Courage” Zone into my “Terror” Zone,
How climbing somehow triggered so many of my subconscious fears, doubts, and insecurities about relationships—that untamed, unpredictable place of solitude and searching while we coexist together that is part of braving the wilderness*,
How those fears so often don’t reflect my reality, but my perception.
According to Matthew Hepburn, meditation teacher of the “Getting Unstuck Challenge” on the Ten Percent Happier Meditation App,“You will get stuck in life but remember, you get to choose how you respond and that response is the beginning of new movement forward.”
“Be afraid and do it anyway.”
Finally, I heard over the radio that they were all on top, so it was my turn as the caboose. With another jolt of adrenaline, I scrambled through a rocky corridor, around random Pine trees, and up one last f***ing rock face that I was not happy about.
But I made it. Now I had climbed all of three multi-pitchs.
At the top, we all high-fived, congratulated each other, and took a group selfie. There was no time for summit beers or bubbles since we needed to get down safely, as soon as possible, and sure enough, once again in the dark. It was six hours after we’d started climbing. By the time we arrived at the car, we’d been in the canyon for nine hours.
This was one of my hardest-earned, but least-enjoyed summits yet.
And, perhaps one of the most formative.
May you do it anyway this week.
Love,
Jules
P.S. Read (or listen to) the whole series, including:
*Braving the Wilderness is the title of Brené Brown’s 2017 book about true belonging and the courage to stand alone. I highly recommend listening to it on a road trip someday!