My brother spends hours alone on the rock, climbing massive, grand stretches of granite and sandstone, belaying himself, cleaning his own gear, climbing back up. The last time he returned from a 1200 foot solo climb in Zion, there was a look in his eye I couldn’t quite understand.
In my teens, I was a climber. I’d regularly take the lead-end of the rope, guiding friends up steep pitches of jagged Joshua Tree rock, or teaching others to build sound anchors or to use certain techniques for overcoming tough moves. At one point, my three friends and I even shared aspirations of climbing El Cap, the 3300 foot monolith of Yosemite Valley. But some time in the last decade I got “The Fear.” As I imagined too many possibilities that could result from being 100 feet off the ground with a 10 mm rope as my only insurance, climbing stopped being fun. It turns out this is a phobia that other friends and climbers have caught.
Regardless of my irrationality, when I return to California for vacations, my brother motivates me for a flashback to my teenage climbing urge. The day before New Year’s Eve, I found myself tied to his rope, climbing shoes snugly on, harness secured tightly around my waist, helmet wrecking my carefully styled bed head. Over the next two hours, we would climb about 300 feet of Tahquitz granite. As Daniel started the first pitch, the aching stomach and the tense shoulders overtook my body. Did I really want to do this? The Fear had returned. Continue reading
