MORTALITY
The afternoon sun was hot on my back and neck. Edging along the tiny ledge to the left, the rock face slowly starting to angle out, my finger holds ended. Sweat trickled down my neck. Dennis was just behind to my right, breathing hard. We were free climbing the north face of the old College Park quarry in Columbia. One of many high-risk pastimes from my youth.
The quarry face had one way up to the top that everyone took. 200 feet slightly sloping in with only the last 20 feet being really hard. I watched a guy miss his grip and fall from this last stretch, landing unharmed on a two foot ledge about 10 feet below him and on a small tree struggling up from a crack. The tree saved him. We decided this day to try another way.
To the west the rock face bulged out. Past the bulge, it relented and sloped slightly in. If a guy could get around the bulge, it looked possible to climb straight up. This was new. None of us had gone this way before. At the bulge, the rock face disappeared into the turquoise water of the quarry lake below.
I was the leader of this particularly dangerous escapade; I was always the leader for the dangerous escapades. The other guys led in other crazy things, like driving like maniacs through the city racing each other. Pursuing girls. Picking fights with other guys. Drinking beer on Saturday nights. I didn’t ever have a car worth racing, I never had any luck pursuing girls, I didn’t like fighting, and I didn’t like beer. But, I loved adrenalin. So if we were going to risk our lives, I was the chosen leader.
I edged along, inches at a time. My toes just touching a half-inch wide ledge of limestone. My right fingers just clinging to the end of a quarter inch ledge at full arm stretch. Spread-eagled, the sun burning through my sweat, I stretched my left fingers toward a crack. The crack ran in a semi-circle along the top of the bulge, several feet long. It was as if a section of the face had flaked away a little, leaving a sharp edged but obviously deep crack. The crack was a dark shadow.
My right foot reached the end of the half-inch ledge. My left foot extended across the face, resting on nothing. With just a small lunge, my left hand, now flat against the wall of rock, clinging to nothing, could hook onto the sharp crack. I wanted to go back. My right cheek was pressed to the wall. I couldn’t turn my head to look back or I would upset my balance and fall. I could see the water 100 feet below. I could see the boulders below the surface of the water. A hundred feet is too far to jump into water. I have jumped from 35 feet many times, and it hurts. A hundred feet is just too far.
I said, “Dennis, I can’t make it.” He was already edging back, easy for him. I couldn’t go back now. I was committed to going around the bulge. Well, nothing for it. My fingers and toes were tiring. I took a breath and lunged for the crack. I made it, transferring half my 170 pounds to my left fingers…. and the entire bulge abruptly fell away. A ton or more of rock fell in slow motion to the lake below, ending in a tremendous splash.
My left hand grasped at air, trying to follow the rock. My left foot scraped on the smooth face. A huge surge of adrenalin hit my muscles. I would not fall. Clinging with my right side with superhuman strength, gluing my body to the rock face, I turned my head to look back. I walked my right fingers back along the tiny ledge until I was upright and could get my left toes on the half-inch ledge, and then worked back 10 feet to where the face started sloping away. From there, I could say it was easy, but the adrenalin was running out and my muscles were quivering. It took me another slow 30 minutes to travel 60 feet to the easy route and thence to the ground.
When I reached the ground I heard scattered applause from the audience of sunbathers and swimmers. I wanted to throw up.
There are some things in life I have done and will never do again. Rock climbing is one of these. I found mortality that day, and knew I did not want to die just yet.
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