ROCK CLIMBING

ROCK CLIMBING

Upper Shipley climbing area: a line called Hot Flyer, amber rock catching the sun. Bolts for protection, chalked grooves marking the route like reassuring breadcrumbs, except the rock is vertical for fifteen metres, then overhanging, and gravity is waiting for a mistake. Mark is on the ground belaying me, feeding the rope out. I am working the sequences on light feet, conscious of rationing my strength, arms held straight off the finger holds. I am seeking elusive side pulls to make upward leverage easier. Now I’m holding on with one hand, shaking out the other and dipping it inside my chalk bag. Feet finding the edges, one of a decent size, giving me a rest. I place protection, clip the rope, try to visualise an energy-saving way to manage the next sequence of moves. A nuanced shifting of weight and I move up the sheer wall, clip the next ring. But my strength is ebbing, gives out before a chance to rest, and I fall freely until the rope grips the last piece of protection. My harness jolts me to a mid-air stop.

I am dangling in the breeze on the end of a rope, orange cliff impassive, valley yawing below. A beautiful amphitheatre, a world heritage stage, serene drama unfolding. Cows dot the green pastures below framed by pine trees like arrows pointing today at three para-gliders having launched from Mount Blackheath on an upbeat breeze.

What are you doing, Mark asks.

Dangling and celebrating.

What are you celebrating

Life.

Can I lower you now? 

Please.