“Ok, lower… lower… right there, stop!” I shout to my belayer. I’m hanging at the end of my rope (literally), trying to gauge how much slack in the system I’ll need to swing over to the giant jug on my right.
Above me is a bolted anchor I’ve clipped a few quickdraws to, below me is approximately 300 feet of air. I feel a distant anxiety in my bones but shake my head and ignore it.
Not the time. Not the place.
I’m doing a pendulum swing to the right. This route calls for it, and it's a unique experience I haven’t had while climbing before.
I turn my body to the right and set my feet against the white granite crystal wall. Running has never been my strong suit…
I wind up and punch it, trying to gain enough momentum to propel me the 20 or so feet I need to get to the next hold. It takes me three tries, but finally, at the apex of my swing, I press off against the wall and leap sideways into the air. All of this is made more hilarious by the fact that I am wearing a pink dinosaur onesie. I woke up that morning and chose style instead of practicality.
My fingertips grab the outside of the hold and I latch on. Gravity tries to swing me back towards my belayer, but I shout for slack and am released. I’m back on my own power to move upwards again. Grinning in my pink fleece onesie I stand up and look out at the sea of holds in front of me.
I’m climbing What’s My Line (5.6) at Cochise Stronghold, a classic old school route that calls for a very specific type of route protection: slinging chicken heads. There are no bolts on this pitch, no placements for gear, just a sea of protruding rock faces that head out in an upwards direction. The chicken heads almost look like mushrooms made of rock, narrow when closest to the base, and widest at their protruding ends. As the leader, it’s my job to find a solid looking chicken head, girth hitch it, clip it, and move on to the end of the pitch.
The climb is rated 5.6, which is well below my comfort level, but as I look up from the hold in front of me, I swallow uncomfortably as I notice the lack of decent-sized chicken heads.
I begin to climb up towards the anchor on my pitch, noticing distantly how much rope is hanging untethered between my legs. I can’t take advantage of any of the chicken heads in front of me just yet anyway, the follower has to also do the pendulum swing and if I place any protection below the anchor point I swung off of, I will doom him to an uncomfortable, and potentially harmful swing.
The wind has begun to pick up, and suddenly I am very cold in my pink dinosaur onesie. I look down and see the ground 300 feet below me, I look to my left and see my free swinging rope vanishing around a corner. I know my belayer is standing there, waiting patiently for me to climb, I know there is an anchor point somewhere below me, I know I am on extremely easy terrain, and yet I feel the tiny starburst of panic swell in my chest.
It’s 5.6! It’s ok.
I feel the holds under my feet and beneath my hands and I breathe. Looking up into the sea of holds I know there is nothing substantial enough to sling safely for at least another 30 feet. My limbs feel an icy lightness that has nothing to do with the cold wind.
I’m free soloing with a rope now.
I try not to think about that, but it is extremely difficult once the notion enters my head.
If you fall here you will swing and bounce and--
I shake my head and clear my throat loudly as if to interrupt someone speaking rudely at the dinner table. I look up, always up, and see a large protruding chicken head 10 feet above me to my left.
There it is.
I look at the moderately thin terrain between me and the hold and breath slowly.
Right foot there, good. That’s a good hand. Stand up slowly, don’t lose your balance. Breathe.
I gasp with relief when I finally make it to the decent looking chicken head. Standing carefully on precarious holds I girth hitch the horn and clip it to my rope.
See? You got this. You’re safe. Keep climbing.
The angle of the climb ever so slightly begins to lower. The holds become imperceptibly bigger and more positive. I gain a small swell of confidence and decide to look back 15 feet to my first and only piece.
It has come completely undone.
The sling I wrapped around the horn was lifted off the end of the rock feature by the weight of the rope moving around it. I watch as my small red and white striped lifeline flutters uselessly in the wind, and then disappears around the corner 50 feet below me.
Great.
I grit my teeth, breathe heavily through my nose, and lookup. The terrain continues to improve, the chicken heads are getting bigger, I can see one only a few feet ahead of me.
Fuck it.
I absolutely don’t look down. My world shrinks to the bubble directly in front of me and extends only so far as I need to see my feet and hands. The pale yellow granite is sharp and unbelievably sticky. I feel the tiny sparkling crystals dig into my fingertips and into the balls of my feet, I trust the rubber on my shoes and I move smoothly up a body length of rock until I am standing face to face with the first decent chicken head on the entire route. I unwrap the sling from my harness and girth hitch it to the chicken head, I extend the sling and give the thin piece of nylon a few test tugs to see if the direction of the rope will undo this essential piece of protection. It holds up to my tests and I feel relief.
There is still panic lingering at the edges of my vision. I force myself to breathe. After a time, as it somehow always happens, I begin to sing.
“We get it on most every night…” I traverse my hands one over the other and grasp thankfully onto a large jug.
“When that moon is big and bright…” I match my feet on a smaller hold and see the ground hundreds of feet below me.
“It's a supernatural delight…” I sling an additional chicken head and begin to gain more confidence. The wind whipping through the pink fleece around my neck.
“Everybody's dancing in the moonlight!” My breaths come easier. “Dancing in the moonlight!”
I feel my panic begin to drift away and I see the anchor bolts come into focus. “Everybody's feeling warm and bright, it's such a fine and natural sight!”
I pull over the final holds and clip myself to the anchor bolts to begin the process of building an anchor, stacking the rope, and bringing up my follower. The motion is easy and smooth after years of practice. I call “Off belay!” down to my belayer and hear a distance “Off belay!” in return. My body takes over and the higher functions of my brain unwind around the panic I’d felt on that pitch.
That was scary.
I was surprised by how scared I’d been on such easy climbing. It was way below my comfort level and yet I had been fighting off real panic. The singing helped. I don’t know why but it always does. It gives that small, scared part of my brain something else to do while my body takes over. It doesn’t make me not scared, but it does make me keep climbing.
I don’t like being afraid. I don’t like how it feels. But I like knowing I can push through it when I need to. I like knowing fear isn’t the end of my ability.
In a way, it is comforting that I can still get scared on 5.6. It means I haven’t gotten good enough at climbing that everything feels easy. The limits of my ability are always being tested and shaped by this sport, and as I progress, each challenge I overcome gives me tools to become a better, more well-rounded rock climber.
Everybody's dancing in the moonlight...