Why climb?

...well, because it terrifies the bejesus outa me, of course!!

If it worked for Eleanor Roosevelt, it works for me...

The good First Lady tell us that "we gain strength, and courage, and confidence by each experience in which we really stop to look fear in the face... we must do that which we think we cannot."

Hmmm, strength, AND courage, AND confidence ... I could do with some more of these, I'm sure. Thinking that I cannot? ... well, there's examples aplenty, so why not start with the one I find most difficult and terrifying!!

I touch on this briefly in my profile: I have an unending drive to push the boundaries of my comfort zone, live outside the square, learn new stuff, and get better at old stuff. Oh, and I get a kick out of giving my ego a good thrashing every now and then, too - for which life has given me (and continues to offer me) ample opportunity.

In short, I hooked up with the man of my dreams (more about him in a later post) about a year ago, he turned out to have more than a passing passion for rock climbing, and - in spite of my considerable reservations about my rock climbing prowess arising from past traumatic experiences doing same - the rest is history. Or is that "his-story" ...??!!

My first foray into the climbing world...

Mid-80's, Victoria, Australia.

My Best Friend Forever is into all things exciting, adventurous and outdoors, and her latest passion has become rock climbing. She's off for weeks at a time, encamped at the base of Mount Arapiles where, I'm told, all self-respecting "rockies" hang out and do their thang. When she returns, she smells not dissimilarly to a goat, and her deep suntan is barely distinguishable from the dirt stains. Oh, and it's Mount Ara-pee-leeees, not Mount Ara-piles ... unless you're a naughty little ratbag who likes to tweak the tail of anyone who takes themselves overly seriously. Who, me???

The day comes when BFF sweet-talks me into having a go at this climbing thang. Off to Hanging Rock we go - where else would you go to hang off a rope, methinks in all sweet innocence? Nowadays, roped climbing is officially banned from the Hanging Rock National Park, and an entrance fee is charged for the Park.

Latter-day "no climbing" etc. sign at the entrance of Hanging Rock, Victoria. The designer of this sign must've been watching my feeble attempts - it looks like a person holding on to the end of a rope being hauled up the wall!

In the mid-80's, however, it was a free-for-all and there existed some popular climbing routes across the Park. The idea was to scarper up the rocks (100m+ tall pillars of congealed lava extruded through a narrow vent in the bedrock, about 6.25 million years ago), and once atop, to walk back down via the multi-step gravel path. The concept left me scratching my noggin in wonderment - why bother with the scarpering bit when you can amble along the lovely path, either up or down, and admire the lush surroundings at your leisure? Missing the point completely here, obviously.

So, on this bright and sunny Summer's day, we park ourselves at the bottom of a rough rock wall and BFF rummages around in a duffle bag full of clanking goodies. The details are way too old and blurry for my recall but I guess she must've had me on a harness and belay of some sort. Or perhaps not - overindulgence in safety and precaution was never her forte.

Anyhow, she's off, up one of the broad, rocky pillars, clambering like she was born to it, and stops about 10 metres above ground to call down instructions to me. Looks easy enough to me. Barely a foot above the ground after what seems like eons, however, and I'm heaving and slipping off the rock and starting to swear and curse. My floppy sand-shoes are no match to her sticky rubbers, for one thing. BFF tries to accommodate me by lowering her (size 8) specialised climbing shoes down to me on a rope, and I slip my (size 6) feet into them. Rock climbing shoes are a crucial interface between a climber and the rock and, for them to work effectively, should wrap your foot up snugly enough to allow the minimum required blood flow to your toes without them dropping off. With BFF's over-sized pumps, I manage to gain a few metres' elevation but there's barely a discernible improvement in my upward progress, and by now my Italian temper metre is red-lining and I ain't going nowhere except straight back down. In a grump.

BFF tries her damnest to impart to me her joys in climbing, in the hope I might see the light and have another go. No way José!! Not this Little Black Duck. Back to cycling, skiing, sailing, horseriding, windsurfing and bushwalking for me. Period.