Sarah Jane hones her skills at the gym.
Photo by Sarah Jane Alexander
“How did you do?” my friend asked.
I needed a fair way to tell her I sucked – but rocked it!
How – in front of three longtime climbers who found every hold with easy grace – I frantically scanned the rock for handholds, footholds, any holds. Then when I saw something that looked big enough to cling to, I clawed and leapt and fell on the rope. I didn’t know the term then, but I was hangdogging like no dog had hung before. Plus, I lost the route and ended up on the other side of the rock until my belayer told me that I needed to head left. Which made me grumpy. I had finally begun to ascend with fragile confidence, finding what I later learned were called big jugs on the route I wasn’t supposed to be on.
Spewing a string of creative curses, I returned to the correct route, scrapping and scratching my way up. Then when, finally, gasping for breath, forearms aching (later I learned the term “pumpy,” though I learned its meaning that day), I topped out on the sport route. Even then I was a mess, grabbing a bolt in dumb triumph. Which was quickly dashed. “Don’t ever grab that!” my belayer called up.
Despite all my noob mistakes, pure joy permeated my soul. I had done what I didn’t know I could do. I had climbed – a feat I had always believed was for someone else. Someone braver. Someone stronger. I had never imagined that I could be brave or strong.
So, answering my friend’s question about my first climb, I said, “If I were someone else, I would have sucked. But because I’m me, I was awesome!”
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