“This is the easy way,” my brother-in-law Kris replied, pointing to the little crack in the face of the cliff as if it was the escalator outside JC Penney. Just take that thing to the top, no problem.
My wife Kara stood at the base of the cliff, looking at the rope that connected her to Kris, who stood ten feet to her left. Rather than making a straight line between them, though, the rope took a much sillier route, traveling from the harness around Kara’s waist, up through the carabiner fifty feet up the cliff face, then back down to Kris. That route, much like rock climbing itself, was rather illogical.
“This looks impossible,” Kara said, wiping her hands across the smooth rock, looking for something to grab onto.
“Just put your shoe into the crack. You’ll be amazed at how much traction they give you,” said Kara’s sister, Jill.
Ah, the magic climbing shoes. We’d heard much about their powers, but hadn’t yet experienced them for ourselves.
That morning, when we were renting the shoes from the outdoor store, I sat in the chair, grimacing and stuffing my foot into the rubber-and-leather ballet slipper, feeling like Cinderella’s step-sister.
“How do I know if it’s the right size?” I asked the clerk.
“When it’s right, it should feel pretty uncomfortable,” he replied, leading one to wonder how one would tell when it was wrong.
“Man, these kinda hurt, don’t they?” Kara asked, limping around the room.
“I think these ones must fit,” I said, sucking in my lips and slapping the chair, hoping that the prince would be fooled.
We’d found ourselves in this predicament by trying to keep up with Jill and Kris, who picked up rock climbing several years ago, first as a hobby, then as a lifestyle. For vacation this year, they’re going to Vietnam, where they can partake in an activity called “deep water solo.” If you’ve never heard of this variant of rock climbing (which you wouldn’t have, unless you live in a Mountain Dew commercial), it’s when you step off a boat, grabbing directly onto a cliff face. Then you climb as high as you can, without ropes. When you’re done, you jump (or fall) into the water, ideally after the boat has moved out of the way.
When Kara and I go on vacation, our idea of adventure is getting Oreo mixed into our soft serve. We live in a Friendly’s commercial.
“You’re doing great, Kara!” Jill called up the cliff. Kara had managed to pull herself right up to the top of the climb, avoiding the shame of having the day turn into a family story for the next few decades.
“That was fun!” Kara said when her feet touched the ground again, though I might have detected some verbal air quotes around the word “fun.”
As I took my turn, cramming my rubber shoes into the crack and dangling from my fingertips, pretending that the ground was not becoming an unsafe distance away, I started to feel like perhaps I was not so bad at rock climbing after all. Then, thirty feet to my left, on a different rope, an eight-year-old boy scampered up the cliff, then rappelled back down, leaving me alone with my thoughts and my bald spot. I had the same feeling you get when you’re snowplowing down a black diamond trail, feeling pretty good about yourself, when a four-year-old with no ski poles zips past you. Except, you know, in reverse.
The day, which we survived with only minor aches and pains in our rarely used clinging-for-your-life muscles, gave me and Kara a great appreciation for the skills that Jill and Kris have acquired over the years, and also gave us a heightened sense of adventure. Next time, we might mix in some crumbled peanut butter cups, too.
You can scale Mike Todd at mikectodd@gmail.com.
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