Last Try

“This is my last try,” I grunted to the rock. Tatonka wasn’t going well. The pinch felt bigger, the granite wore at my thumb, and the horizontal press into the roof was turning my abdomen to jelly.

I lathered chalk onto my fingers, using the block of magnesium carbonate like soap. My hand thoroughly coated, I started on my feet; The soles needed to be powdered dry before I dipped them into my tight climbing shoes. The down turned toe and snugness of the boot made me a rock danseur. I grabbed another handful of chalk and went to work. Press right foot, wrap thumb around fingers, crimp, reach behind head, pinch, use thumb catch, lift foot, press into roof, stomach tight. I’m doing it. The twist to the jug would take me to easier moves and the finish. My legs shook as my torso rolled towards the in-cut hold. That’s when I fell.

My hips hit the crash pad squarely, the foam did little to soften the fall; a jolt shot through my spine. I stared at the boulder problem and scowled, mumbling “F*#k you clown.” The granite in Squamish had a sadistic sense of humor. This was my third day on the 12 foot boulder problem. It had laughed at me 56 other times.

Craig shrugged, “One more trye for me tu.” His broque sang. He’d come to Squamish via Scotland last year and this trip he intended on staying. Craig threw on his boots, spit on his hands, and crushed the holds. His feet were barely pasted on. He missed the thumb catch on the overhead pinch. His body sagged. I moved to spot, catch him if he fell. Suddenly he was pulling the mantle, pressing out the finish of the problem.

“Fookin’ awesome,” Craig labored from the summit. “That thing’s fookin’ grate.”

My shoes were sitting next to my pack. I stared them down, remembering my worn skin and weak muscles.

“That was sick brah.”

“Yeah, tis gud. Not that bade. Ya ‘ave ta trye it agin.” Craig had more confidence in me than I did. That was my last try. I was sore. I needed to pack and leave for California. It was late.

“Ya ken due-it.” William Wallace was goading me into the battlefield. I nodded and picked up my shoes. “Last try,” I mumbled. The bar of chalk soaked into the creases of my hands as I rubbed powder onto my feet. My shoe felt baggy. I cinched the Velcro tight and the leather took shape around my bulging toes. The initial moves were solid: the thumb catch was there, my feet were glued onto the rock, my core was perfectly planked. I moved into the crux and pressed. Suddenly I was Luke Skywalker barreling down the corridor of the Death Star.

“Don’t trye it. Due-it.” My body rotated towards the jug. A hand shot out. I watched as two fingers sunk onto the in-cut hold. My legs exploded off the rock and I checked the swing aggressively, throwing my heel onto the granite. Bump, bump, press. I summited.

Craig nodded smiling, “Bet thas the las thyme ya say las trye.”