Delusions of Failure

---

Well, here it is- I submitted it as you see it here, slightly revised from the original.



Delusions of Failure


It has been three and a half months on the road since I set out from New York with my fiancee, Stefanie, to enjoy climbing delicacies across north America. From the composite granite of the Needles in South Dakota’s Black Hills to the chossy shale of Seward inlet in Alaska-- each venue has left me searching for validation. Part of me still feels as though I have no right to call myself a real climber, having missed the days of Lycra and bolt wars. Stefanie tries to reason with my self doubt but I know she shares the same uncertainty. Having worked our way down the west coast and set up an impromptu camp near South Lake Tahoe we have come about twenty thousand miles since leaving home but not much closer to an existential resolution.

Day one finds us sampling the climbing at Lover’s Leap. We get two pitches up It’s Better With Bacon (5.8) but decide to bail and return to camp due to an impending storm. Heading west on Highway 50 I am proud to have squirmed through the “protection-challenged” slab on the first pitch but equally disappointed to have not completed the technical crux before getting shut down by lightning. I fumble with the Supertopo guidebook to re-read the description of Bear’s Reach (5.7) which I hope to attempt tomorrow. I try to ignore the menacing column of high-end SUVs lining up in my rear view mirror. Aggressive vehicular maneuvers allow several drivers behind me the respite of passing; their less-than-muted body language informs me that we are the only ones impressed with our progress on a half climbed route. I focus on finding the turn-off onto state forest land, which comes suddenly. Traffic surges ahead in our wake and in seconds we are alone, becalmed on a tiny,winding back road.

Pulling into camp there is a calm in the air. The storm we sought to escape has largely passed, though not without its torrential downpour. The voices in my head tell me that a real climber would turn around and go back out there. Finish what you started.

Stefanie reads my blank expression intuitively as she exits the car to boil the water for a Ramen dinner and says, “You did really well out there today. I can’t imagine having to lead that with so little gear. You looked really solid.”

I nod to myself without answering. It was a good lead, just not good enough. By far the hardest climbing I have ever done, mentally speaking. My hands are sweating as I recall “learning” about thin protection, having climbed past a micronut, stuffed precariously in a shallow seam into which I could barely fit my fingernails. I had watched it come loose; the clattering bits of hardware skidding down the slab beneath me seemed a deafening racket. Like a dream measured in dog years, each breath became a conscious act and I remembered the sound of blood rushing to my brain in pounding torrents.

My reverie is harshly interrupted as Stefanie breaks into my thoughts. “Our stuff is all gone! Look- all our clothes and stuff are gone” Sweaty palms give way to cottonmouth. I swallow hard, willing the spit to return to my mouth. The words “stuff” and “gone” bounce aimlessly in my head, echoing across the blank darkness I feel overpowering my brain. I step out of the car and hope for a gross oversight on her part.

“You sure it’s not there?” I croak, restating what I am now realizing to be an obvious fact.

I resist the urge to further verbalize more obvious questions about where our packs, filled with all our clothing, hiking gear, crash pads and spare climbing shoes have gone. I find myself unable to exercise the same restraint in regards to the dirty laundry bag which has also been absconded along with a bag of rocks collected from various parks we have visited.

“Those bastards took our dirty undies” I mutter to myself, teetering on the verge of maniacal laughter and feeling a bit like a character from “The Big Lebowski”. Stefanie is beside herself with rage, bluntly expressing her desire to heap vengeance on the perpetrators in ways not remotely fit to print.

I amble back in the clearing behind our campsite to a small precipice hoping to gain some clarity in the falling darkness. Doubt washes over me like a tide. In retrospect we should have known better. Then again, in months of similar camp set-ups, no one had made the effort to pillage any of our “at large” camps since they were always well off the beaten path. I rack my brains to try and imagine who would steal from the poorest people in a town where every other vehicle is made by Mercedes and the lower class contingent have only one Escalade parked in the their garage. Climbing ability is now lost in a morass of larger issues which demand attention, not the least of which is a lack of underwear.

I barely feel human as I head back to camp in an attempt to console Stefanie. I try reminding her that we can always get a few threads in town and that will be enough to suffice; still there is a deeper demoralization at work, knowing that your loss is gratuitous and will not even benefit the perpetrators.

We talk briefly after dinner, about possible plans for the next days. Is it even worth it to continue on? Can we afford to replace our gear and keep traveling? These troubling questions will have to wait for the next day. We settle in for a comfy night in a car that is too small for even one of us.

Day two. The indecision afforded us by sleep quickly dissipates as the morning sun creeps over the eastern horizon. Within minutes our car progresses from frigid to uncomfortably hot. Stay or go; that is the question at hand. After all, if ever there has been a reasonable cause to bail, this seems to be it.

Staring up at the ceiling of the car I suddenly feel an inexorable urge to get out there and climb despite being free within myself to bail without moral penalty. Perhaps being disabused of material possessions is just what we needed to circumvent the doubt and redouble our focus on pushing personal limitations.

I share my revelation with Stefanie over a breakfast of flavored instant oatmeal and beef jerky; I am suddenly thankful that we kept our “kitchen” in the trunk of the car. The bright yellow plastic bowl in my hand feels light and flimsy as I gesticulate with the heavy metal spoon in my other hand to state my case. We pack up the car and soon brave the eastbound traffic on Highway 50 back to Lover’s Leap.

I am fumbling with the Supertopo guidebook again, even though I have nearly memorized the nuances of Bear’s Reach. Having researched the route on various climbing forums before we left New York months ago, I had gotten mixed reviews about its suitability for a new leader such as myself. Some said too runout, must be solid at the grade, others said it’s do-able in roller skates. I have no roller skates, no room to fail further and more recently, no spare underwear. Warnings in the guidebook about loose rock and belay anchor fatalities give me pause and I tactfully avoid playing this angle up as Stef and I discuss the climbing to come.

Although Bears Reach is one of the most popular climbs at Lovers Leap we are pleased to see from the approach that we have it all to ourselves. Bumbling is always better done in private and I have no doubt that there will be plenty to go around.

Self doubt bubbles up in my throat as I start up pitch one. I know the aforementioned runout is close to the start- good because I can get it out of the way quickly, bad because a slip will result in a groundfall. Stef senses my heightened tension and attempts to make small talk—her unobtrusive method of keeping me from holding my breath.

I reply with playful sarcasm, surprised to be suddenly happy and having fun. The rock fissure in which I am placing one lonely cam will have to see me through a bit of unprotected climbing but I am struck with the control I feel. I chalk up and shake out. I am fully present in this moment- not worrying about falling, not fretting about gear, not merely climbing as the only alternative to plummeting; rather ascending for the sheer joy of doing so under my own power. I smile and whistle along with the wind blowing through the vent holes of my “Gumby green” climbing helmet.

Three pitches later Stefanie and I stand quietly atop Lover’s Leap.The commitment of a multipitch climb with gear belays had always seemed insurmountable before today. Palpable tension from the invariable retreats had fueled the engines of my own cyclical self doubt. I am not alone in this understated triumph. A broken ankle which, a year before, had threatened to cut short Stefanie’s climbing career now throbs a little bit, aggravated by the elevation; the dull pain reminding her of the price of success.

A little discomfort keeps us both honest. Sharing it keeps it from consuming us. The thrill of a monumental achievement completed begins to set in and we babble wildly as we head down a surprisingly tame walk-off. Fifteen minutes later, at the bottom of the cliff we look up to where we just topped out. We speak the jargon of crusty old trads--talking runouts, fixed pro and “ground-up” climbing as I realize that I cannot, for the life of me, remember each item that was stolen and why its loss had seemed so important.We may never be great climbers, but as of this moment, we are real climbers.

---

Comments

[Renae Zackey]

I liked it!
This is good, where are you going to publish it? It is neat how you "let us in" to your thoughts and emotions as decisions are made. Makes the reader feel involved, even though some of us are not even climbers. You feel you can relate the feelings of doubt, pride, accomplishment, to where ever you are at in your own life. I liked it. Thanks for sharing