An inward adventure - Achemine E9 7a - page 4 The voices from below which moments ago had been shouting encouragement were awkwardly silent. Hanging limp in my harness, I didn’t know what to say, so I broke the silence with a laugh and an explanation for my failure. As I was lowered down, my shock and buzzing excitement turned to pain. I wished I hadn’t come so close. Not only did it mean I couldn’t give in, but the expectations from within and from those watching were an immense burden. The line had become a real prospect, rather than just an imaginary possibility. It was there for the taking, but what would I have to go through to take it? I hoped that only one more effort would be enough given how close I had come, but in the back of my mind, I knew that I could have failed on any of the hard moves. And so the experience became one of constant failure once more. Over the next three weeks, I visited the rock ten times. I would either visit at 9am for the cool morning air if I could persuade my girlfriend Claire to hold the ropes or at dusk if the evening was cool and windy enough. On each visit I underwent the familiar but relentlessly demanding process of mental and physical preparation only to take the fall every time. The whole experience hijacked my thoughts and my life. I realised that the only escape was to succeed on the route. But despite the fact I had been so close before, I also had to accept that failure was inevitable every time I made the tiniest of mistakes and this pattern could go on indefinitely. With my ankles and wrists in a worrying state following each swing and slam off the headwall, I asked myself how much more of this could I and the people around me take? At the time I wondered how I managed to find the will to go back and throw myself off the crux time after time and deal with the upset in my life, in the remote hope that I might just sneak through and finish it. After all, I could have just walked away and trained for two years before returning to complete a much more certain outcome. Only in hindsight, and without the cloud of an uncertain outcome, do the enjoyable and fulfilling aspects shine through. For each of those 11 times I took the fall, I have a photographic image of looking down as I dropped away from the wall of the exposure, the ropes whipping around at weird angles and the world rushing past. Each time I took the pleasure of focusing with my whole mind on each move and moment, the next instant was my whole world. Such a feeling is the deepest relaxation I can imagine. Your name and status and every worry you ever had is let go and forgotten in order to align every thought to perfect execution of the next move. These were special moments and experiencing them more than once was good fortune rather than purgatory. I realised later that such experiences in climbing are by necessity very rare due to the enormous effort which is required to reach the true limits of your ability. But when the chance comes around, it must be grabbed with both hands. Finally, just as my long university summer break ran out and my ankles reached the point of medical emergency, my sheer persistence paid off. I stood at the bottom of the route, stamped out my anxieties once again and half shook, half floated my way through the final crux moves on a wave of cerebral opiates. As I reached the final move for the first time since the very first lead attempt, I detached myself from the growing anticipation of success for a vital few moments more and scuffled through to the finishing bucket. It was over, and I felt happiness, relief but also emptiness. The route had provided me with direction, excitement and reward for over a year. What could fill the gap now that it was complete? First published in SMC Journal 2002
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