Up the Water Spout
“It’s so hot, this weather is killing me,” says my eldest with the precise intonation of the nine year he is and the ninety-year-old he will become. We’re setting up climbing ropes in the southern Utah desert: It’s the first time my youngest has ever climbed, it’s the first time my eldest has climbed on real rock, it’s the first time my partner has climbed in twenty five years and it’s the fifth time I’ve ever climbed in my whole life.
I’m annoyed at the complainer because it is an entire sixty degrees. But I begrudge him a bit of lenience it's been four-ish months since the sun has touched any part of us not covered with an insulated bib. Despite the copious application of sunscreen today, a burn is imminent.
Climbing is the kind of thing I've always thought was unattainably cool. I never tried because I was scared I wouldn’t be good at it and I would not be fabulous enough to participate. I’m right; I’m not very good. But because I am old and I am a mom, not a single person is checking me out. This is both sad and freeing.
“The rock I just spent an hour observing as not so bad, not too steep - now it is pretty bad and the pitch is quite steep. ”
We put on our harnesses (and I give only a passing thought to how ugly the thigh bulges created by said harnesses look – which is a sizable success) and set up the ropes. The boys ascend first and they move so quickly I can barely keep the rope moving through the hardware attached to my waist. They are so nimble they don't even notice how far they are from the ground or whether anyone is watching them. Or, if they do, it doesn't bother them.
Then it's my turn to be aloft. The rock that I just spent an hour observing as not so bad, not too steep - now it is pretty bad and the pitch is quite steep. Enough that three quarters of the way up I take a moment to look over my shoulder and spot just how far I am from the ground. I turn back to the rock and focus on my toeholds in attempt to dispel the band of fear wrapped around my ribcage. It doesn’t work.
I make it up and touch the anchor. I even lean back into the harness with my back to the ground to rappel down. I grip the rope in front of me even though I know I’m not supposed to. It won’t help either; if the rope releases, I will too. From up there, I hear the boys clamoring to go again.
When I return to earth, I gladly hand the rope to them. They ascend and retreat five more times while I work through the stages of the rush; I did it, I can do anything, I am now one of those impossibly rad climbers. I certainly don't look it. I'm not tanned showing off my lean twenty-something muscles in a sports bra.
When the moment fades, though, I am still harboring a spark of pride in myself for being open enough to fail at it and of the boys for throwing themselves into it – something that was unable to do even when twice their age. I'm a little jealous and a little proud and a lot happy with the fact that we were able to be there in the Moab desert on spring break.
The next night, it rained. Pretty big rain too, the kind that tinkled and trickled onto our canvas camper roof. When I pointed my sleepy eyes out of the trailer door, there was water coming down the rocks we had just climbed. Waterfalls in the desert, what a marvel. Just about as likely as me not minding what other people think.
That storm showed me the fall line, the easy way to come down. All the handholds were painted by watercolors in different way than the day before. All that water fell without thought or hesitation. The way I felt when up there on that same rock, finding a foothold, only considering the next movement of my fingers and toes.
Inspired by events on Wall Street, Moab, Utah
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