I Bailed on an easy climb. It’s my Biggest Climbing Accomplishment

I was far above treeline, but the cliff was warm.  The granite had absorbed the sun for hours, and now, in the late-morning calm, the rock was starting to return the heat.  The temperature was a gentle weight, stirred by the softest whisper of breeze, and I might have imagined a beach if it wasn’t for the view.  From my feet the ridge stretched in a giant horseshoe, a curve of cliffs tinted orange on ozone sky.  Below, the walls sheltered a basin, a nest of half-melted lakes and snowfields darkened with the dirt and choss of glacial debris.  Further on, a hundred tents colored a meadow, and beyond that, mountains sawed into the sky.

The setting would have been peaceful if I wasn’t impatient.  It’d been six years since dislocating my shoulder and having to give up climbing.  It’d been eight months since getting surgery.  It’d been six weeks since starting again—and six hours since waking at four in the morning for the Northeast Ridge of Bugaboo Spire, the first alpine climb in many years.  I knew the party in front had every right to take their time, but I wanted to start.  I waited with my hand on the wall—and then finally, it was time.  My partner nodded and said the sacred vow, the promise to catch me if I fell. 

On belay.

I launched upward.  Adrenaline took me into the crack—and then everything went wrong.  Tightness seized my shoulder and awkwardness fouled my limbs.  My hands jammed clumsily, and my feet struggled with all the grace of a baby taking its first, halting steps.  I repositioned uselessly as the seconds lengthened, trying to grasp forgotten skills.

Almost everything since surgery had been on a face.  On a crack, I didn’t remember how to climb.  And if I gave up on technique and muscled through, my arm might rip out of the socket.  The thought brought a tingle a fear, and then a struggle to force calm.  I’d done this before.  I could do it again.  I looked down, scanning for feet, and winced.  There was nothing good and I was already high enough to break an ankle. 

Placing the cam brought relief so deep it was embarrassing.  Then I struggled on, hands clenched in beginner’s fear, over-gripping the rock and over-placing the pro.  On reaching the anchor, I’d used too much gear to link pitches and had to stop. 

Belaying my partner, I was shaken.  I followed the next section gingerly, and apprehension built as I started leading pitch three.  It was only 5.7—but it traversed left, the same direction as the ground that was dropping away, extending height far above the elevation gained.  Soon there was hundreds of meters of air, falling all the way to a distant snowfield.  The drop brought a surge of fear—and then a wave of judgement.  What was wrong with me?  Since when was I afraid of heights?

I tried to let the criticism go and use encouragement instead.  I’d been a solid climber in the past.  I’d on-sighted 12b.  I could do five seven.  I belonged here.  I belonged on a cliff.  After a few breaths, tension eased.  I’d almost relaxed when the rock bulged, forcing an awkward move.  I stopped below the feature, positioning my hands and weighting my fingers, intensifying the ache in my shoulder.

There was nowhere for protection.  The next place for a cam was above the bulge.  And the last piece was already three meters down.  If I fell it would be six meters.  Six meters bouncing down a cliff, smashing whatever bits of my body hit the rock.  Knees and ankles and pelvis and back, ribs and neck and teeth and skull and…I tensed as the images rushed, brutal and sharp.  I would shatter.  And then I’d be bloodied meat and splintered bone, high off the ground and many hours from help.

I took a few breaths, searching for calm.  This was all in my head.  It was aneasy climb.  I wouldn’t fall.  It was five seven and I’d climbed 12b.  I just had to commit.  I just had to do this one…awkward…move.  I pulled on the holds—and then stopped.

This was stupid.  I was climbing like shit.  I was scared of heights.  I didn’t trust my shoulder.

It didn’t matter that I’d climbed 12b.  That was a different me, in a different time, with a different body.  Most importantly I’d had a different mind, one that trusted its skills.  It didn’t matterif the fear was in my head.  Lack of confidence could cause a fall as much as any other weakness. 

I was done.

I told my partner I was bailing.  He could lead, or we could abandon the route.  My partner was kind.  He led the pitch, and we finished.  But most importantly, I was kind to myself.  Years earlier, in Yosemite, I’d almost died from not bailing.  I’d been frustrated with my progress and pushed on when I should’ve turned around.  That’s why now, I’d say my biggest achievement wasn’t on-sighting 12b, it was bailing on 5.7.  It required letting go of my ego, accepting that 5.7 was too hard to lead safely.

To do that I had to separate self-worth from what I could do on a wall.  That was not an easy journey.  My younger self would have been ruthlessly critical for bailing—so my younger self probably wouldn’t have bailed.  And then my younger self might have died.  Died, or been paralyzed, or damaged my brain so badly I wouldn’t even be me.

Why did I ever think that worth did depend on athletics?  No-one said it.  I would have rejected the idea out of hand if someone put it directly.  Instead, I’d absorbed the culture around me.  I’d listened to the praise given to others because of their skill.  I’d taken in the admiration given to me, a shy teenager with few friends, when I’d gotten better at running.  Gradually, I’d learned to judge myself by my accomplishments—and to judge myself for my failures.  I didn’t realize the depth of that worldview until Yosemite, when I almost died.

I was lucky.  I survived, and got the chance to rethink what climbing meant.  But reflecting on that experience, I’ll be more careful how I honor others.  I’ll try to praise kindness, not skill on the rock.  And I’ll be more careful how I speak of myself.  I have a buddy who said she was a little bitch for bailing.  Would she have said that if a friend bailed?  No—but a friend who heard her speak of herself might get the message.  And the friend would be less likely to bail when they should.

What if we spoke differently?  What if professional climbers talked more about turning around?  What if they’d said this wasn’t failing?  If role models spoke in a healthier way, climbing would be safer.  And most of us aren’t professionals—but if we climb at all, we’re role models to someone.

So—I used to be a 5.12 climber, and then I bailed on 5.7.  I’m okay with that.  It wasn’t failing.  It was proof of a healthy relationship with the cliffs, and a healthy relationship with myself.  To whoever is reading this—hugs, kindness, and stay safe.  You’re worth it as you are, and there’s nothing you need to prove.