I am Not a Big Wall Climber (part two)

Being landlocked a majority of the time, I forget about how much I have always loved the ocean. My high school sweetheart and I spent many times over our summers together at the beach, and I’ve always equated it with a place of calmness and love. The ocean can be described in an endless number of ways–it’s both beautiful and humbling, and its vastness makes it mysterious and terrifying.

When we first arrived at the island, we dove into the sea during a lightning storm, bare and buoyant and free. There was a happiness there and we all shared it, separately and together at the same time. It almost felt as if each wave we went under healed certain parts of us.

That night, we were refreshed and well-fed, feeling ready for the weeks ahead. Despite obstacles, when we got to the base of the climb, the moment that Tiny and Gaz started putting on their harnesses, everyone was feeling good. The first day, Tiny bolted about twelve meters and my job was to belay, send Tiny gear as needed, watch and learn.

There are so few formations in the world like this, and we were climbing one of the most remote ones. Pico Cão Grande is perhaps even more impressive than the Devils Tower in Wyoming, surrounded by jungle and hidden in a constant thick fog of clouds. Words couldn’t express how beyond lucky I was feeling.

Below the peak, the roots beneath the earth overtook the jungle floor and because I was afraid of fumbling (and I did, often), I kept my eyes to the ground. I collected small mementos along the trail as we went, like ferns and leaves, sticking them in between pages of a book I had brought. I thought about giving them to Ryan when I came back to Colorado, and even though I hated that I was missing him, he was on my mind regularly. I’d overheard Gaz telling José, one of the plantation managers, about his girlfriend in Mexico. He said that it takes a strong and independent woman to be able to support someone on a big trip like this, and suddenly, I felt too needy. I wanted to be fuerte (strong), like the women on the island.

I began to jug pitches faster, but was still slow in comparison to the rest of the team. Tiny and Gaz were basically jugging hundreds and hundreds of feet and I could not keep up. I tried to be meticulous with scrubbing; having never done this before, I wanted everything to be perfect and wound up taking too long. Everything I did was slow. Everything I did was stupid. I felt stupid. I felt awkward. I was inadequate, and I knew it, and the team did, too. Every day that went by us felt like I wasn’t doing enough, despite being fully exhausted . I remained positive, for a time. Every night, I closed my eyes and told myself repeatedly: Get a little extra sleep, and with a little more determination in the morning, tomorrow will be a better day.

I was uncertain of a lower out, but Tiny explained to me quickly and then off he jugged, out of sight. It was too fast for me to comprehend and again, I felt dumb. The voices of both Gaz and Tiny were suddenly gone and I sat at the belay, shaking and practically in tears. I didn’t want to cry or panic, but it was so hard to rid myself of the sudden fear of a rope cutting if I wasn't too careful. Matt came down and sat with me for a few moments, which felt comforting. He then advised me not to make any decisions when I was that upset, which I am prone to doing.

One day later, I went back and did the lower out. I felt proud, finally. All of the mechanics of each piece worked, just as Gaz had explained they would. We ate breadfruit that the porters hiked in for us with olive oil and honey. As I munched the sweet, sticky bread, despite my small victory, an isolated feeling within me kept creeping in and this time, would not leave.

The following morning, I sat at the base for a very long time, probably fifteen or twenty minutes, before jugging up. I simply sat there. That was the first time I wanted to give up; I wanted more than anything to just go home, get off of this continent, and crawl underneath covers with no intention to come out. I had never felt so alone in my life.

The team soon believed to be three or so pitches from the top. I was silently cheering them on, but selfishly wanted it to be done so we could leave. I was fully aware that I had been the weakest link, an absolute failure. One day, I said to Gaz that this had been the hardest I had ever worked for a rock climb and I will never forget the look of disapproval on his face. I immediately felt ashamed.

They summited on May 29th, 2016 around five o'clock in the evening. The plan was to resupply at basecamp, take the rest day, and then go back to try and redpoint the hard pitches. Now that the climb had been fully bolted, there was so much left to do . I began counting down to myself: six days until I can go home. We couldn’t extend our trip beyond those four weeks and for that, I was incredibly grateful. We were soon treated to a shower by Guillaume Taufflieb, the plantation manager. An actual hot shower! I let the water run down my filthy skin, trying to let the tears out but nothing came. When we returned for what would be our last hike in, I walked alone and blindly fumbling through the jungle. I cried the entire way, hot tears blurring my vision.

The rest of the team didn't rappel down until very late in the evening. That entire day and night, I didn't sleep until everyone was back on the ground. I waited silently, like most days, restlessly sitting in feelings of sadness and utter loneliness. When I was alone, I found myself revisiting key moments and I would go over again and again in my head.

I have learned that a big wall is very much like the ocean—it is unrelenting and will take absolutely everything you physically have to give, unremittingly swallowing you whole. It will give you nothing back. The entire experience is humbling.

During our goodbyes, I apologized to the team for letting them down and tried to thank Gaz for the opportunity. He asked me if I would go back to nannying and told me, “You should. It’s easier.” I froze. His words carved something out of me, a slow, deep cut to an already chafed wound. It would be so much easier to say yes, and go back to life as I’d left it, swearing I’d never try and climb a big wall again. But it would be a mistake. Although the words were sharp and somewhat cruel, it was no louder than the voice already inside of my head, telling me what I couldn’t accomplish, what I’d failed so miserably at.

In the beginning, I was told to prepare to be hungry—all of the time. I flew back home, still hungry. I think that was the point; the meaning of life is not simply to exist in changeless comfort—and let that hunger push you onto the next thing, and then the next. Ever changing, and learning to fail better than before.

All photographs courtesy of Matthew Parent