It seemed like such a good idea before. Not only would I be getting my journalism assignment done, but I would also be getting out of Grahamstown for a few restorative hours to frolic with nature. What did it matter that I cannot stand heights, or that the people I were with, were very experienced in this particular activity? I would, if not conquer, then at least introduce myself, to my fear. I was going climbing and that was all there was to it.
On a particularly sunny afternoon, a few of my friends took me to a climbing spot about 20 minutes outside of Grahamstown. I was all decked out in my sporting gear and ready to throw myself into the gritty activity of climbing a very real, very rocky and, as I discovered when I arrived, very steep mountain face. I am not afraid to say that when I saw it, my mouth dropped a little and the pores in my hands opened so wide that my hands felt like I had put them in water. Revolting I know, but I quickly resolved that situation with a bit of climbing chalk and no one was any the wiser.
I opted to go last so that I could pick up a few tips. “It is not really that difficult, Pip” one particular friend commented, while she strapped on some kind of harness, that, to be honest, would have looked stupid on anyone but her. Typical. I grinned, somewhat manically, as the muscles in my face would have preferred far more to grimace, and stepped closer to watch her boyfriend begin to climb the wall, with no rope attached, as someone had to start the lead rope. It really did not look that hard, but, as most people have discovered, what looks easy, is generally far more difficult.
Finally my turn came. My friend stepped out of her harness and passed it to me. I held it gingerly and began to shakily put my leg through the strap. I swayed as my one leg spasmed in terror and held onto my friend to sort out the other leg. Eventually, I was done. I felt like I was wearing some kind of chastity belt and, as the thought passed my mind, I giggled softly. I felt so proud, that at such a terrifying moment, I could make myself laugh. I turned to look at the rock before me and quickly pinpointed the hairline crack in which I was supposed to somehow wedge my fingers into and, subsequently, pull up my 55kg body. The rope was attached to me. I was learning all kinds of climbing jargon, like “karabiner” and “belay”. At least, if I chickened out, I would have expanded my vocabulary.
As I placed my fingers into the crack, I swung my leg up to a point above my shoulder. I was in the most ungainly position but I stubbornly stuck to it as that was what my friends had done. I had one foot left on the ground and I hoped to high heaven that I would be able to lift it in the yoga-like position I was in. With a deep breath, and a huge effort, I pulled myself off the ground, where, unfortunately, it scraped haphazardly at the rock, as I had not thought of where that second foot would go. I finally found a little ledge. I breathed slightly and tried to stop the shaking of my arms. I heard a cheer below and grinned a little, feeling slightly more cheerful. I looked up and stretched my right arm and then my left leg and so on, until I was about eight metres high. I turned to where the encouraging whistles were coming from and then heard the panicked shout of my friend, “Don’t Pip! Don’t look down!” What does any person who has been told not to look down do? They look down. I could feel myself falling backwards and scrambled madly for the wall. It was no good; I was too far away now. I carried on going backwards until I was falling. It lasted about two seconds as the friction in the rope stopped my fall and I was jerked to a stop. With my heart beating wild rhythms in my chest, I was slowly let down to the ground. I still had not said a word. My friend asked me if I was ok. I could hardly hear her, for the pounding in my ears was so great. I stepped out of the harness, removed my climbing shoes and sat on a rock. Never again.
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