The Journey
It seems I’m too small a person to be generous or kind when I’m not happy or when things that come my way are not what I expected… I’m too entrenched in my own discontent to care for people around me.
But the story lies somewhere else.
It came my way and it wasn’t what I expected so my discontent was all too obvious. Sicily, as a climbing destination. It looks good in brief tourist guides but as I tried to get used to the idea and searched for climbing info, the photos of the walls only increased my disappointment. They looked like an old man’s teeth: of an uncertain colour, rotten, full of cavities. Of all the pictures i saw before arriving, two had the gift of giving some hope. One was of a compact grey wall somewhere near Syracuse – the Metamorphosi crag. And the second was a picture of a woman reaching between two small holds on a polished, reddish wall – Journeyman. The name, the move, the wall entered my brain and never left.
We arrived and as soon as the airport doors slid open we entered a sauna in blinding light. Never in my life had I considered this combination of light, heat and humidity anything other that a torture method of some extreme war conditions. On top of this the first crag we searched for was hidden somewhere behind the thistles. The second one – Metamorphosi – didn’t look bad but it wasn’t as impressive as in the pictures. Plus it was in the middle, or at the bottom of a necropolis, far away from camping sites – sleeping with the “residents” of the necropolis was not an option, and far from the sea.
So we decided to try San Vito, at the other end of the island. Here, among the first options was a north face – Cattedrale nel deserto. We found it was as beautiful as the name.
A truly impressive wall, all day in the shade (it was still hot, humid and blindingly sunny). The western corner, heavily battered by winds became our working place; how I came to appreciate the west wind for drying out all the holds! How I came to love the place for it was looking directly at the sea; watching the calm waters mirroring the clouds or the frothy waves hitting the shores. A few days passed before I gathered the courage to try Journeyman. It was an illusionist’s feat, for once I climbed higher the holds were uncovering like invisible ink and forming strange alliances. Small holds, half of a phalange, tore the skin apart creating small continents on the tips of my fingers.
The storm came – my hands gave thanks to the gods for that – and with it a rest day. I spent my evenings in an armchair by the “climbers’ corner” – yes, the camping featured such a thing, reading about the old mad who had gone for 84 days without catching fish and on the 85th day went far out at sea to change his luck… I was in the same position. I had spent and entire year struggling between one project and fearfully trying other routes, with no or little success, and now I was far out at sea, thinking I should climb as much as a could and feeling terrified of going home without climbing this one beautiful route. Would my luck change or, like the fisherman, would I bring home the skeleton of a big catch?
After the rest day, back on the route for the third day and fear came along. This long time companion who has plagued my climbing, keeping me from trying to find my limits was present as I tried the to link some moves… I gripped every hold with all my strength, got pumped quickly and believed the route to be harder than it actually was… There’s nothing vital in lead climbing a route, no distance was as big as to put me in some kind of danger and there’s no way he couldn’t catch me if I fell… still the same fear I know too well paralyzed me and I had to fight my own head to get up to the last bolts. Another rainy day sent us on the road, this time not a wanted break. For me time was running out and I would have climbed every minute to get more time on the route, to get to feel comfortable… If I could not climb at my limit, I simply had to get my climbing beyond the difficulties of the route so it would be within my limits…
MOst of the journey I hadn’t been aware of the date or how much time we had left. But as time ran out I knew I had four days left, then three… just like in “Seven days”: Would Sunday be too late?
On Saturday I went to place the quickdraws and linked the hard part… until the last tough move. On one hand, it was a pleasant surprise. I was not even tired or pumped, I kept telling myself it was possible, that it was great to have linked so much of it while placing the quickdraws. But there was a storm in my head… My initial plan for that last move, the very move in the picture as I discovered, was to get my right foot up and reach with the left hand. Then I thought it was hard and tried the sequence in the picture, both feet on and reach with the right hand…it worked but not always…It was too late for another change. Then he sent the route in one perfect climb and I was left alone in my corner to go another round.
Again, everything went perfectly until that last hard move…I tried the sequence in the picture. One foothold too far, it didn’t fit. Plan B, swapped feet and tried my initial plan… I couldn’t reach but I didn’t let go either. No plan… Only from my left foot, pulling hard with my right hand… I must have been closer to the rock, because the hold was closer than ever. The one move I had never tried before… I slipped my fingers into it and moved on to the clip. At this point my feet were shaking so badly I thought they wouldn’t stay on the rock, but the holds were fairly big and somehow I reached the belay.
It’s still a wonder to me how I came to reach that two finger pocket, how I managed to climb the one route that I dreamed of since I saw the picture…It’s still a wonder how it’s never enough, not even this most pure form of joy. It seems I’m too small a person to give something back even when I’m happy, even when things that come my way are not what I expected, but what I wanted with all my being. It’s not discontent now, it’s a hunger for more and the fear that my efforts won’t be enough; I’m too self absorbed to care for the people around me.
I’m back to the vast army of small and useless things that fill this grey area between week-ends, back to chasing the sun on Green Power, back to the bargaining on time and words and meanings. That perfect line , the perfectly calm sea mirroring the clouds, the impossible move that became real are all a distant memory, weighing less and less in the balance of time.
to make some things clear
this is the picture that started the obsession
Chiara Cianciolo su Journeyman 7c
the route – the tiny holds on the grey face
Journeyman
and… the perfect day
the day before the send
