Tourists on Moro Rock in Sequoia National Park gawk
at Mike like he is a zoo animal.
Photo by Susannah Fairly
Sequoia National Park route a three-pitch 5.7. But when we arrived at the start of the third pitch, I knew we had been led astray.
I was looking at a 5.10 crux and I didn't know what to do – except try.
“OK, here goes,” I said.
But I didn’t go. Very far.
I fought with the rock, grabbing at different holds while trying to push with one stable foot and smear with the other. Nervous sweat soaked my hands.
To make matters worse, I had forgotten my chalk bag. Alvaro had loaned me his chalk ball, which I had attached to a belt loop. But the fine powder it emitted was little better than useless.
I needed to collect my thoughts – on terra firma.
“Slack!” I yelled up to my belayer, Mike, as I downclimbed.
“Why don’t you try going up over here?” Alvaro asked. He pointed to part of the rock that would spit me out on the ledge that led to 5.7 heaven if I could navigate a lichen-covered curve.
But the curve didn't register in my brain. Or the lichen. All I saw were what looked like juicy handholds.
With my short legs, a difficult high step was the first order. After a few minutes of gawking and false starts, finally I got on the rock. Slowly, I moved a few inches left before the panic set in.
I was out of handholds, and like a true noob, that's all I wanted. What had seemed like copious knobs from the ground turned out to be relentless licheny slopers.
My mind twisted between frightened blankness and adrenaline-pumping fear. Two things I remember thinking were:
“Are you sure rock climbing is for you?”
“Hell yes! And when I get through this, I will feel so happy.”
But first I had to maneuver through, or there would be no glorious relief.
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