Second Ascent
A new gravity seemed to fill the small alcove where we were all clustered, and the energy in the group intensified. We all became focused. Eric was going to send this. No matter what.
“Oh, now we’ve got a story,” Dustin Miller said.
As Florida climbers, we’re used to having to pilgrimage to find our playgrounds, and we were on the back side of Horse Pens 40, a bouldering spot nestled atop a mountain in northeastern Alabama, a stone’s throw from Birmingham.
The group had found an off-width crack problem. When Eric, co-owner of Stone, heard, his eyes grew large.
He examined the problem: a crack that came from deep between two boulders and followed its way up to where they split. The route continued up to the left with some crimpy holds and finished over the top.
Someone else — Chris, an experienced climber — said he knew the problem next to it but not this one.
So, no one else had sent this? Definitely not in awhile judging by the dirty holds. The possibility was tantalizing.
After some initial attempts — and falls — Eric became playfully serious.
“I’m gonna get my crack gloves.”
We were all clustered around the rock, and two words lingered in the air – delicious and awe-inspiring: first ascent.
If Eric sent this, it might possibly be the first time. He would get to name it.
“What would you name it if you climbed it?”
“Big nugget,” Dustin’s son Kingsley, nine years old, offered.
A new gravity seemed to fill the small alcove where we were all clustered, and the energy in the group intensified. We all became focused. Eric was going to send this. No matter what.
“Stone feels kind of like a church,” Wes had said at one point during the trip. “We’re all supporting each other toward a common goal.”
We were gathered around the campfire -- the blaze warming us against the chilly Alabama evening.
“It’s funny you say that,” Eric had replied. “My dad was a pastor, and I’ve reflected on how similar owning a gym is to being the leader of a church. We’re creating a community. I get to check in on its members. Make sure they’re doing OK. We go on retreats.”
“Stone feels kind of like a church,” Wes had said at one point during the trip. “We’re all supporting each other toward a common goal.”
At the crack problem, the mats placed below Eric looked like a tapestry of large puffy pillows. The ground was dotted with colorful chalk bags and the occasional crushed skeleton of a “send beer.” One of the other climbers, Nick, stood at the bottom of the rock, ready to spot Eric should he fall. Max, a Stone employee, and Chris got a ladder out to clean some of the holds higher up. The rest of us became devoted cheerleaders.
As Eric attempted the climb, someone suggested we check the guidebook to be sure the route wasn’t documented. Wes began to flip through the pages.
Another climber had remarked once during the trip that bouldering is the most inefficient way to get up a rock face. If you really wanted to get to the top of something, you could just walk around.
But you – we – climb for the climb, the journey. Climbing is atelic -- an activity where the point of doing the activity is the activity itself, not something you get from it at the end.
On the trip, Kingsley had been getting down on himself because he wasn’t sending any projects – and thereby not winning the 20 bucks Eric had promised him.
“It’s art, not a game,” I’d tried to encourage him.
I’d struggled enough with my own projects, which usually corresponded with the ones Kingsley was trying.
When I told Eric I admired his confidence – and how I would get a feeling of fear once I got to a certain point —he said thoughtfully: “You’ve got to confront all of that before you get on the rock, then accept the risk, and commit.”
On the next attempt, I committed.
I didn’t send the problem, but I finally got the part that had been stopping me. It felt like success — even though no real goal had been set or reached. Just that small bit of progress. Of climbing higher. Of feeling more secure on the rock.
Climbing is about the process. The refining. There can be goals — climbing a higher grade, finishing a certain project, overcoming a fear of heights. But we do it for the beauty of it. The way it makes your body feel. The way it works your mind. Not because there’s a specific outcome.
“Oh, here it is,” Wes said, as he located the problem in the guidebook. “It’s a v4.”
Nobody really paused or took a moment to be disappointed. Eric continued on – and the energy of the group escalated.
“Go, Eric!”
“You got this!”
“Yeah, Eric!”
As Eric topped the problem, everyone roared.
“You all got so loud,” Eric said after. “It was awesome.”
At night, around the campfire, we all shared our best, worst, and weirdest moments. We were all different ages, including a 30+ year age difference between the oldest and the youngest person. But just like surfing, where age washes away with the tide, it didn’t seem to matter so much when we were all attempting to hang on by our fingers from a rock wall.
Everyone’s best moment seemed to be someone else’s best moment. Wes sending a project he’d being trying to get for four years. Ben crushing it on real rock for the first time. Kingsley’s jokes.
On Stone’s last trip to Rocktown, I climbed up a high ball v0 (I know that sounds like an oxymoron), and I got scared. But I had Eric and someone else above me and a group of people below me all cheering me on. And I felt safe.
Bouldering isn’t about goals. The goals are illusions, like trying to send a first ascent on a problem that already appears in the guidebook, but you just don’t know it yet.
Yet, perhaps, climbing isn’t entirely goal-less. We do it for the climbing, but we also do it for each other. To show each other what we’re all capable of. To help each other dream bigger – or maybe to dream at all. What matters about climbing is the feeling it gives you as you’re going – and the connection it creates between you, the rock, and, most importantly, the people you’re with.
— Caroline
Photography by Dustin Miller.
