Better be Gryffindor!
I had a hard time sorting myself into the right Hogwarts house this weekend, even though I know deep down which one I belong in. Those faulty on-line sorting hats most often proclaim me a Gryffindor, but I take those results with a shaker of salt. My Ayurvedic physician tells me I’m predominately “Pitta” or Fire element, whereupon I protest; highly-opinionated, angry, bossy, and over-confident people have always greatly irked me (these characteristics are the ugly underbelly of Fire) and I don’t want to be sorted amongst such a lot. My dad, for one, was antagonistic to the nth degree. I hate people that lay on the horn in traffic too. I wish they’d stop by the ice cream shop to cool off. My Ayurvedic physician brushes all my lame protests aside, and instead slyly asks me pointed questions like “What would your reaction be if someone tried to overpower you in a dark alley?” or “Were you nervous about becoming the guardian of your 14 year-old sister?” Without a second thought, I know the answers to these questions and what those answers supposedly say about me.
The problem is that you can’t successfully rock climb if you don’t have some of that Gryffindor courage, and I desperately want to embody this trait so that I can be a good climber. As a climber, I always lament that I’m not bolder. I see hot-headed guys in possession of less technical climbing skills than me jumping onto a hard route that I’ve been eyeing up for weeks with trepidation without their giving it a second thought. They proceed in taking multiple big air falls, and if they’re badly behaved as well as overconfident, they start yelling out swears and slapping the rock in the process. At my most self-forgiving, I’d tell you that’s not my style and that I’m far more subtle and crafty. Hence, from time to time I get sorted on-line as Slytherin. At my least self-forgiving, I’d call myself a wimp for not stepping up to the challenge as they did. When looking at the situation impartially, I’d explain that I treat the rock with reverence because to me there’s something truly divine about it. I wait until I have the skill and commitment to climb a route in beautiful style. I whisper to the rock; I never yell. This is all manifestation of my earth and animal loving inner Hufflepuff, another favorite result of those cyber sorting hats. I finally got sorted this weekend, but it took the full two days and the brink of tears for me to figure out my house.
On Saturday morning, my husband and I headed down to the scenic San Rafael Swell for a weekend of climbing on the Wingate Sandstone buttresses with our friends Rick and Theresa. Even though it had been my idea, I found myself hard to budge on Saturday morning when the alarm went off at 6 a.m. signaling that it was time to jump in the pre-packed car and hit the road. I’d had so little time for myself all week and the thought of camping in the primitive wilderness, becoming desiccated by the desert air, getting too much sun on my skin and sand in my teeth, and grittily fighting my way up the buttresses seemed too demanding for my current mood.
Shouldn’t I stay home and play the contented Hufflepuff in my garden? It was spring after all- the perfect planting season. Or how about setting all those airy Ravenclaw ideas down on paper finally? Sadly, I never leave enough time to write. It was too late for such thoughts; our friends were already on their way. Soon enough I found myself standing on desert soil and to my dismay, the boys were immediately gung-ho to climb. Theresa, while not as strong a climber as the three of us, is always fun to have around.
Pause for explanation: There are two main ways to ascend a rock-climbing route. It is essential that someone goes first or “leads” the route. As implied by the term “leader”, this role requires more bravery and imposes more danger. The leader ties into the rope and trails it up the rock with them, inserting camming and wedging devices into the cracks and clipping into these devices every 5-10 feet (more or less, depending on your bravery and tolerance for falling), in case they should fall. The distance a leader falls before the rope catches them would be twice as far as the height he/she climbed above the last device (also called cams, protection, or simply “pro”). The safer, less exhilarating way to ascend is to climb a route after it’s been led by someone, essentially to “follow” the route. This is also called “top-roping” because the rope runs from an anchor at the top down to the climber. Should a top-roping climber slip, they would simply bungee onto the rope within 12 inches. Top roping also gives the climber the advantage of being able to keep both hands on the rock at all times since they don’t have to place the devices; therefore, it’s easier to “flash” the route (climb with no falls) while top-roping. I usually feel guilty about top-roping as it is considered, by serious climbers, taking the easy way out.
After a series of warm up climbs, I looked on as Chris, my husband, led the first real climb of the day. It was nothing less than the hardest lead any of us had ever done. I was both proud and envious. I faced the fact that the glory in rock climbing is rightfully awarded to the courageous; standing on the ground, having not picked out a route to lead yet, courageous I was not. Other days had been different for the three of us: It had been Rick and Chris who had stood on the ground while I pushed myself up a difficult route to set the top-rope. Smiling knowingly, they had jokingly agreed “better her than us.”
Today was different. This route Chris had led looked ridiculously hard. I tied into the top-rope and fought to ascend it, but immediately I felt diminutive. I could not reach the good hand and foot holds simultaneously as Chris had. The route suited his 5’11" frame and quick bursts of strength, not my 5’4”. Usually, I am adept at finding tiny intermediate foot chips to patter up as substitutes for the others which I can not reach. No such luck on this route. My feet scuffed against a surface as smooth and black as a chalkboard. I changed tactics and eventually found a way up after taking several falls and eating what felt like a meal’s worth of humble pie.
Rick went next. His choice of route to lead was a beautiful, golden, adventurous, overhanging route. It was not possible to see all of this route’s details from the deck. One must simply go up and explore. We all climbed this one and enjoyed it. It turned out not to be particularly difficult for me and I wondered whether I should have stepped forward to lead it, but in my mind I knew it had suited Rick’s 6’3” lanky frame and adventurous spirit and appropriately challenged him. I would have been taking it away from him, and yet, not fully challenging myself.
The sun fell low in the sky, signaling that it was time to go back to camp. I hadn’t found my courage, fire, or route that day. I loaded into the car with Chris, who knew exactly how I was feeling. He reassured me that the snapshot of one day did not accurately depict me as a climber.
We woke up the next day to a typically cold desert morning. I didn’t want to come out from inside my warm and fluffy down sleeping bag. In addition, I was already thinking thoughts like “What if I don’t have what it takes to climb hard?” Reluctantly, I began the long trek up to the buttress laden with my heavy pack of gear. We traveled to a different buttress than we had visited the day before and lo- an unwelcome 15 foot cliff greeted us part way up. It was easy climbing for us, but not for our dog. We were forced to tie a makeshift harness for him and haul him up. Apollo the black lab never ceases to amuse and amaze me. He once tried to run up a 10 foot tall boulder to join me at the top. Eyes wide, he greeted this challenge with similar heroics and lots of excited licks and barks when he arrived on top. Rigging the dog had been a success, but it had cost us a good half hour when the sun was already climbing high in the sky, parching us, and we had limited water for the day.
We finally arrived at the buttress and began scouting around. I craned my neck upwards to survey half a dozen foreboding routes, mentally declining them all. With diminishing hope, I decided to round the south side of the buttress to see what lay over there. As soon as I saw it, I was drawn to its beauty. There was something decidedly feminine about the route that lay in front of me. It consisted of a sometimes barely finger-thin crack that eventually split into two, snaking its way delicately up the jet black buttress. The black desert varnish that coated the surface must have taken thousands of years of wind, sun, and air to form. Desert varnish looks like black rust on top of the orange sandstone only, unlike rust, it is hard as an 8 ball, providing an added advantage: the devices have little to no chance of exploding out of the rock should the climber fall.
This route whispered “lead me” and yet it would require precision, technique, endurance, and much courage. In sum, it was well-suited for me, except maybe for the courage part, I thought. I set down my pack and looked at the guide book. Indeed, it was rated quite hard. I decided to set off a bit further down the buttress so as to exhaust my options before making up my mind. I came back to this route and looked up at it again. When a route speaks to me like this, I have no choice but to lead it. I made up my mind and loaded my harness up with cams. I stood at the base for one last moment, as is my habit, double-checked my knot and was struck with the realization that I felt a lot like Harry that day, before he’d gotten sorted:
“Harry didn’t feel brave or quick-witted or any of it at the moment. If only the hat had mentioned a house for people who felt a bit queasy, that would have been the one for him.”
A tear escaped my eye. Chris surveyed me with confused sympathy. “If only there were routes for queasy people”, I stammered unintelligibly. He wiped my eyes. I explained my meaning. It felt good to let my bottled up feelings out. Then I turned to the route and started to climb. It was difficult, but I felt my body rise to the challenge. It felt good to put my excess energy into working hard. I double-checked every device I placed by smartly and fiercely yanking on it to ensure it would not bust out if I fell. I climbed higher until I stood face to face with the crux.
Crux is a brilliant word. In four letters it sums up the moment of truth when climbers decide whether to face their fears or back down from them. I placed a tiny camming device and surveyed my situation. My left toes stood on a chip of rock the size of a mouse. My right foot smeared on nothing in particular. My right hand reached up into a crack that barely allowed entry of the tips of my fingers.
“Watch me”, I hollered down to Chris, my belayer. I forced the tips of my fingers into the crack and ratcheted down on them. I reached up with my left hand for a second tips catch and pulled myself upward. I had to leave even the mouse-sized foot hold behind and simply rand smear my feet against the rock. In a hand over hand lieback style, I egregiously inched higher above my protection until it was time to high step my right toes with razor precision into the pod-like opening where the vertical crack widened. If I missed, I’d ping off the route into the fall. As I was thinking this, I felt one foot slide out. I was barely hanging on, but going nowhere. Maybe I should just drop, I thought, rationalizing that a controlled fall is always better than an unexpected one. No! The long-dormant courageous part of me protested. Beautiful routes like this one deserve full effort or you should have stayed on the ground. How I had time to think these things, I’m not sure. Next I knew, my inner Gryffindor took over. I heard myself make noises that sounded like I was wrestling a troll, before I saw my foot slice into the pod with the required precision. “Courage, Gryffindor,” I heard myself mentally say. After passing this crux, the rest of the route was just a matter of fierce endurance.
I lowered to the ground smiling and handed the rope over to Chris. I’d been sorted much like Harry had. Yesterday, I had no idea that I was courageous. Today, this route had forced me to believe that I was. Chris tied into the top-rope and gave a try to the route that was mine. In a testament to the route’s difficulty, he fell three times before succeeding to pass the crux and only with help from me pulling on the rope. He hadn’t been able to slot his larger fingers into the crack, much like I hadn’t been able to make the longer reaches the day before. We were good partners, I mused. We had different strengths and weaknesses but together we could succeed in most situations. I could garden next weekend. Today, I got sorted Gryffindor.
**Note: For all you Fluffers, it was really the elemental imagery that tempted me out of lurkdom onto the Fluff thread.