Roots

It was my first E2. Dressed, like every aspiring rock cat, in a pair of lemon yellow lycra tights I'd created from my sister's old leotard. I'd broken out the brand new Kamet Joshua Tree's and was keeping them clean by standing on the ropes, which were slowly sinking into the mud. A few weeks later I would leave these pristine boots at Ilkley and never see them again; a mistake which would lead to months climbing in gym pumps, and a lecture about responsibility from my dad.

One of the old lags who hung suspiciously around Almscliffe every evening had told me that a number 4 rock went in just above half height. That was lucky, because I had one of those on my spartan rack.  Currently it was clenched between my teeth, already clipped to the rope. I figured it would save some strength if I could just throw it in on the way past. With nothing else left to delay the inevitable I gave a quick nod to my belayer and set off. I was a sight to behold in those days; purchase for the feet was achieved by pasting blindly and trying to run my feet up faster than they slipped. Untrained power emerged erratically, and upwards progress was achieved by a series of violent spasms which were impossible to predict from the ground. This unorthodox technique got me to the wire placement and to my relief the rock swallowed the wire gladly. Sadly, my wild attempts to pass the gear resulted in me kicking it out. Hung out to dry on the break above the crux I had plenty of time to regret my empty gear loops. I wondered if I had enough strength left to stay attached to the jugs that led over the steep bulge above. Below, my un-named belayer was looking around for someone to help carry my corpse back down to the road. He didn't climb with me much after that.

Fear is something we learn from our experiences and from those around us. We're hard wired to learn to be afraid; afraid of snakes, afraid of heights, of failure, loss, and girls. But we need the clues from our experiences and our family. "Don't go near there!" "Please be careful!" But back then a wild enthusiasm for climbing drowned out the tiny voice in my head telling me to be afraid. I just needed to climb, and if there was no-one to climb with I'd cycle out to the cliff and solo; steadily adding harder climbs into my circuit until I was spending the long summer evenings playing King of the Crag, climbing wherever I liked on a whim.

How did that bold youth end up like me? Last week I was back on an E2; a perfect spring evening on Stanage. Jules stood patiently holding the ropes, whilst I umm'ed and ahh'ed. Three perfect wires by my feet, mocking me. "Come on!", they said; "Commit!". I edged out and stroked the arete, knowing as I did so that it was a gesture. I wasn't going anywhere. Eventually I caved in to inevitable and climbed back down, stripping my gear as I went.

This is how you get brave

Your roots make you who you are. Roots are something we put down as we grow, but they hold us down too. They limit our freedom. Patterns spread like roots inside your brain as you learn behaviour. Somewhere along the way that bold young kid soloing around Almscliffe let a little bit of fear into his brain. There it sat, quietly laying out tendrils, until the brain was riddled with fear; nestling in every nook like ivy. Opportunities to prune the roots were missed. Instead a series of unfortunate events fed them and gave them strength.

This isn't.

Gimmer Crag. May Bank Holiday 1990

Leaving the stance, I rattle in a large hex which drops into the crack with a satisfying clunk. The Crack above slices the groove cleanly. An orgy of comforting jugs and solid jams leads quickly upwards, leaving the solitary hex swinging on the rope a mile below. This is the day that fear first took root. A few feet higher and the crack is seeping gently. The solid jams are soap-lined, and carelessness sees me whistling out of the crack and down, down, down. I still remember the look on the faces of the lads on the belay ledge as I shot past them. We all look up at the hex, praying it's as good as I remember. The hex, of course, holds firm. Afterwards, there's lots of uneasy banter. I check myself over for damage and I seem fine, but I didn't notice that a little chunk of fear had got lodged in the back of my brain.

Bosigran, Easter 1995

Another perfect day. It's been a few days since we left Uni, a few days of golden granite and wind-chapped lips. Everyone else has packed up and headed back to the minibus, but there's still daylight and rock to climb. Somewhere around the bottom of Autumn Flakes I tighten up my boots and head upwards. From time to time I pause to look out over the Atlantic and savour the solitude and commitment. Eventually I find myself on a little sloping ledge about 30m up with a layback crack above it. The crack is a bit wet. It reminds me of Gimmer, all those years ago. The fear in the back of my brain wakes up, and reminds me to be careful. Every foot placement draws my eye back down to the ground, and reminds me that I cannot fall. I am not careful enough. There's no time to realise what happened. One minute I'm tentatively inching upwards. The next I'm on my back on the ledge. The sea hangs crazily above the grassy ledges. My foot is wedged painfully behind something, which appears to be the only thing stopping me from rolling off the ledge and dropping to the rocks below. Should I move? I can't stay here. But if I move, and my foot slips, the fall will surely kill me. Carefully, I pull myself back onto the ledge and sit shell-shocked, unable to come to terms with what just happened. I press myself to the back of the ledge and yell; hoping that someone will come and find me. 

These were the big moments. The ones that really made a difference. Over the years though, thousands of little decisions let the fear grow. Decisions to back off, when I should have pressed on. Grab the clip, or take the lob. Gogarth, or Malham? Every time I take the safer option another little root starts to grow.

Pembroke, April 2016

The Mighty Sutton. Ready for anything.

I've got to admit, the gear is good. It's not as close together as it could be but it's bomber kit for sure. The wall is steep and clean. Definitely safe. It's not enough to make me go for it. Instead I top-rope it clean again. Rob goes for the lead and climbs it effortlessly. Even a sudden hailstorm whilst he eyes up the runout doesn't unsettle him. After all, the wall is staying dry. What a guy! Time and tide wait for no man however. Thankfully I am spared the decision of whether to cast off or not. I don't sleep that night. The next morning the cliffs are being battered by a gale; waves breaking over the chapel. When I realise there's no climbing today the overwhelming feeling I feel is one of relief. I think it's time for some gardening.