Wall-climbing

Wednesday night, I supported a man. But not like a well-behaved wifey.

At the end of my first formal climbing class, I found myself responsible for the heft of a 6ft2, lanky, broad-shouldered man-boy (we'll call him Charlie), hanging 40+ feet above me. As he efficiently climbed up the four-story wall, I shifted rope, hauled in, anchored all of his 180ish pounds like a kite-line anchors one of those large, topsy dragon-shaped kites.

At 25ish feet, Charlie fell.

But not far, because I've already told you: I was supporting him back on the ground.

Turns out Charlie was testing me. Lucky for Charlie, I was holding down the 'forte.' And you should know that I'm pretty strong. A regular 5'5" wonder gal. Also, happily, I can add 'belay-supporting a wall-climber aided by gravity and friction' to a short list of natural aptitudes I seem to sport. (Phew!)

So I'd been wall-climbing before, just a bit during an Adventure Education class in high school – and I've been looking to get back into it. Wasn't it satisfying to sit on the top of the playground monkey bars at age seven? There's something about using your own strength and reason to reach an acme, and then literally surveying your progress from the top.

During this first class, we brushed up on novice rope-tying and harnessing skills. Everything came back to me quickly, and as soon as they let me, I eagerly (but carefully, with calculation) rainbow-routed my way to the highest point. I got some praise from the instructor, some mini-cheers from my four classmates; sure, I was thrilled!

But, once up top, in all my blushing glory, I realized my hands and wrists had weakened, were limp and sort of pulsing, nearly useless. They were way out of their element, these typing-accustomed pansies. And that won't do. Gratefully, I pushed away from the wall to be lowered down.

During this week's class, we'll get into finger-strength saving technique. It's boot-camp for these hands. Glove...camp.


So what'll I do by the end of this week?