The dagger in my heart rents to & fro: a steely wrist manipulating it like an insidious marionette being performed in front of an aghast audience. In this case it is an audience of one. Me. I am hushed, watching the entertainment w/ breathe choking anticipation. Humor is on my side but it is an irreverent humor, comical only to the bottom of the spirit. It's an ironic laugh that escapes my parted lips...
 |
| American Fork Canyon |
...The sky is crystal – a light blue spreads the Year's coming spring across the atmosphere like stretching extremities. The wind hasn't yet began to blow as predicted per all the weather forecasts; it is nice. Almost perfect. Haggle & I have decided to attempt another wall. The Hell Area, for now, has lost its allure & we long for different scenery. The Division Wall is decided upon. We had climbed here a few times last year, was in-fact, the wall were I took my first lead fall whilst she belayed. It is staggered w/ great looking moderate lines, most of which we haven't tried.
 |
| Division Wall - Liquid Oxygen |
The two 12's I have planned (Liquid Oxygen 5.12a, Struggling Man, 5.12a) on red-pointing sit at the back of my mind, loitering like misfits. As we get out of the car, Mark pulls up behind us to our great surprise. He had told me he most likely wasn't going to make it, so indeed, it is a nice gift as he parks his jeep, smiling face & all, behind our vehicle. The Division Wall, still in shade, looks cold. We crane our necks up towards the sun, almost willing its arcing travel to travel faster, we want to be in the direct heat the day has to offer. We all have had enuf of climbing on cold rock, as it was, & switching things up seemed to be the wish for all. W/out unpacking the car, we walk over & up to the area, to check the digs out. I run thru the easier climbs for mark, pointing them out, from memory, & tell him where I think Liquid Oxygen is, & confirmation comes via another group of climbers; we are looking at the correct line. Partially wet, but not overly so, we hem & haw over what to do. Haggle, the whole time, pacing back & forth, a hungry lioness. 'Let's climb. Let's climb. Let's climb.' She whispers into my ear each time I get close to her. Soon, baby, soon. She is revved & ready to go go go. She is all smiles, & I tell Mark, let's warm up here, & we will decide afterward what to do. Done & done.
 |
| Haggle, Leading 'Physical Therapy' |
Before I can even get my pack off, Haggle is unpacked, racking up, & digging her feet into her shoes. You leading this? I ask, smiling at her energy & compunction. “Yup, Yup, Yup.” Haggle leads her way up Physical Therapy, 5.9+, quickly & efficiently. Only stopping here & there, to complain about her fingers, how cold they are. Indeed, the rock is much colder then seemingly it should be. Mark makes his way up, top-roping, complaining about the cold rock, & I do the same as I top-rope the route. Brittle, finger-tip breaking cold. As I clean the anchors, & begin to set up a rappel, I have to stop multiple times to double & triple check everything. My fingers are w/out feeling. Finally, I lower down to the group. It has the makings of a great, golden-statue of a day...
My hand shakes lightly as I lift a cup of coffee to my lips. Sitting here, my left knee stretched uncomfortably straight – I cannot bend it properly – I am scratched & bothered by guilt. I play Saturday over & over in my mind, unable to shake its sneering grin; it seems to me, at this early hour, to be laughing maniacally. Giggling a torturous song that sirens between my ears deafeningly. I cannot escape it, & it is this inability to change my mind's point of view, this handicap that stops me in a corpse-lock of second guessing, that makes me feel out of control of myself, pointless, & a lottery wisher. How quickly things can fade for an individual. How quickly we can forget...
'I don't want to waste a lot of time trying to get a route. I mean, how many hours were we working on The Gateway? Times running out. I think we should hop on something here. Try to knock out as many as we can today. One or both of these .12's', Mark is saying. He is talking about Liquid Oxygen & Struggling man. Haggle & I are sitting at a picnic table, smoking. Bathing ourselves in the sun, glad to be out of the shaded wind for at least a time.
My hand shakes lightly as I lift a cup of coffee to my lips. Sitting here, my left knee stretched uncomfortably straight – I cannot bend it properly – I am scratched & bothered by guilt. I play Saturday over & over in my mind, unable to shake its sneering grin; it seems to me, at this early hour, to be laughing maniacally. Giggling a torturous song that sirens between my ears deafeningly. I cannot escape it, & it is this inability to change my mind's point of view, this handicap that stops me in a corpse-lock of second guessing, that makes me feel out of control of myself, pointless, & a lottery wisher. How quickly things can fade for an individual. How quickly we can forget...
'I don't want to waste a lot of time trying to get a route. I mean, how many hours were we working on The Gateway? Times running out. I think we should hop on something here. Try to knock out as many as we can today. One or both of these .12's', Mark is saying. He is talking about Liquid Oxygen & Struggling man. Haggle & I are sitting at a picnic table, smoking. Bathing ourselves in the sun, glad to be out of the shaded wind for at least a time.
 |
| Division Wall - Struggling Man |
W/ excitement building, I ask Haggle if she minds staying where we are, if she can take being cold for a little bit longer, that I think Mark is right...& that it shouldn't take too long anyway. Standing, discarding our cigarettes, she says, 'yeah, that's fine.' It shouldn't take too long, I tell her, I'll knock these two out quickly...
The mourning Sunday weather emulates my mood: dank. A suppressive layer that won't flake off the supreme of me – that which I've worked tirelessly to become, to show, to gleam from the inside out, all...withered & stamped. I get up & gumby myself up the stairs. My limp progresses me further down, & suddenly a cigarette doesn't seem to matter all that much. But I trek on anyway. As I light a cigarette & slowly ease myself into a chair, I drag deeply, tucking my chin down into my chest, shivering against the unseasonable cold encasing me w/in a depression w/ razored wings...
I am airborne. The ground falling toward me in an ever increasing speed. Pins & sharp needles stab my abdomen like sharp-toothed kisses. I have just enuf time to think, when am I going to stop? & then it's over. It happens in an instant...after the fact. I'm hanging there, wondering what went wrong. From below, I hear Mark, who is on belay, asking, 'you ok?' I take a quick mental note of all my extremities, yes, yes, I say. Hang on. & that's what I do, plan to do for the next few minutes. Hang on. Dangle on, is more like it. This is my third red-point attempt on Struggling Man. I'm below the 5th bolt. The last bolt before the chains. Fuck goddamn! My breathing is heavy. Labored. I know I can make these moves. This is what I'm telling myself. I believe it, I do. I'm done resting. Feel slightly better. I gear up. Climbing, I yell down to Mark, not caring if he is listening or not.
The mourning Sunday weather emulates my mood: dank. A suppressive layer that won't flake off the supreme of me – that which I've worked tirelessly to become, to show, to gleam from the inside out, all...withered & stamped. I get up & gumby myself up the stairs. My limp progresses me further down, & suddenly a cigarette doesn't seem to matter all that much. But I trek on anyway. As I light a cigarette & slowly ease myself into a chair, I drag deeply, tucking my chin down into my chest, shivering against the unseasonable cold encasing me w/in a depression w/ razored wings...
I am airborne. The ground falling toward me in an ever increasing speed. Pins & sharp needles stab my abdomen like sharp-toothed kisses. I have just enuf time to think, when am I going to stop? & then it's over. It happens in an instant...after the fact. I'm hanging there, wondering what went wrong. From below, I hear Mark, who is on belay, asking, 'you ok?' I take a quick mental note of all my extremities, yes, yes, I say. Hang on. & that's what I do, plan to do for the next few minutes. Hang on. Dangle on, is more like it. This is my third red-point attempt on Struggling Man. I'm below the 5th bolt. The last bolt before the chains. Fuck goddamn! My breathing is heavy. Labored. I know I can make these moves. This is what I'm telling myself. I believe it, I do. I'm done resting. Feel slightly better. I gear up. Climbing, I yell down to Mark, not caring if he is listening or not.
 |
| Lewis - Struggling Man |
I begin to climb. Making moves past my last protection. My right & left hand situated, the latter up in a side-pull two finger under-cling, the former on a crimp smaller then I want, feet snug, & throw to a smaller crimp. Left hand a two finger pocket, &...I'm off, airborne again. From the arcing I know I am swinging in. Going to hit. & then it happens, My knee impacts into the rock wall, hard enuf to elicit a cry of pain...from Mark. Lower me! I am saying, lower me, I'm going to fucking vomit! The decent is slow, painful. I feel like I'm going to pass out...
As I sit in my chair, on the porch, against the cold storm wind, I replay all of it, over & over. None of it makes sense to me. The training. The diets. The constant climbing. The worst thing that can happen to one, happens. Doubt in myself & abilities maturate deep inside me like a cancerous demon baby. I am at its mercy. Perhaps The Blight was a fortunate barb. A mistake that the universe corrected quickly. Project 31 is too much of a project. I can't do it. That much is obvious. I exhale a plume of blue smoke...
We are back at the car, standing around, talking. Mark is drinking a beer, Haggle a Pepsi. I have nothing, whilst here & there, taking glances back at The Division wall. 'Well you gave it some good goes. I think if you hadn't slammed your knee, twice in the same spot for chrissakes, you would've got it, for sure,' Mark is saying. Well, I did hurt my knee, that's the point. Haggle is listening to us talk. Don't know if I will be able to get any of these. Man, another day of humble reckoning, I say. My face contorted by the reverse of happiness. 'Let's say that you don't. You will, but let's just say. So what, right? Isn't that what this project is about anyway? Never giving up on impossible odds?'...
As I sit in my chair, on the porch, against the cold storm wind, I replay all of it, over & over. None of it makes sense to me. The training. The diets. The constant climbing. The worst thing that can happen to one, happens. Doubt in myself & abilities maturate deep inside me like a cancerous demon baby. I am at its mercy. Perhaps The Blight was a fortunate barb. A mistake that the universe corrected quickly. Project 31 is too much of a project. I can't do it. That much is obvious. I exhale a plume of blue smoke...
We are back at the car, standing around, talking. Mark is drinking a beer, Haggle a Pepsi. I have nothing, whilst here & there, taking glances back at The Division wall. 'Well you gave it some good goes. I think if you hadn't slammed your knee, twice in the same spot for chrissakes, you would've got it, for sure,' Mark is saying. Well, I did hurt my knee, that's the point. Haggle is listening to us talk. Don't know if I will be able to get any of these. Man, another day of humble reckoning, I say. My face contorted by the reverse of happiness. 'Let's say that you don't. You will, but let's just say. So what, right? Isn't that what this project is about anyway? Never giving up on impossible odds?'...
 |
| Lewis, in pain after two big falls |
I get out of my chair & limp into the house. Aloud, I tell myself what I had told Mark in response to one of his questions ('What exactly is Project 31, anyway?'): “You can come up short, but never sell yourself short (Mark: 'Well, there you go. Perfect.'). That's what it is about.”
No comments:
Post a Comment