I clung to the rock. The smooth quartzite was cool under my hands. There were plenty of stone holds to grip with my chalk-covered, slightly bloody fingers and plenty of crevices in which to jam my toes. The sticky black rubber of my purple climbing shoes provided the extra friction needed to help my ascent.
The year was 2008. I was climbing Wounded Knee, a 5.10c-level route in Utah’s Uinta Mountains, and I was proud of myself for attempting the challenge, as my usual comfort level rested with easier 5.7- and 5.8-level climbs. I was feeling strong despite the thin air at our elevation of ten thousand five hundred feet. Fifty feet up a rock face near Ruth Lake, I had already made it past the crux – the place where my brother-in-law had floundered miserably earlier in the day. I managed to remain calm and thought carefully about each foot placement, each handhold, as I climbed steadily upward.
Although I’d already watched my husband and brother-in-law climb this route, it was difficult for me to learn from their experience. I am much shorter and have a lower center of gravity, and so I had to find my own way, develop my own strategy to tackle the rock. In places where one of the guys might simply reach up, take hold, and pull himself up before placing his feet, my arms fell short and I would have to mantle, pressing one arm down on an outcropping at waist level and pushing my weight up to bring my body horizontal, matching my foot to the place my hand had been as I reached above my head to wrap my small fingers around a rough patch of rock or jam them into a crack and use the tension to balance myself for a moment and evaluate my next move.
After I reached a substantial ledge not far from the top of the route, my belayer and guide, Charlie, encouraged me to take a rest. I let go of the rock with one hand and double-checked the figure-eight knot I had tied earlier to fasten the loop of rope to my harness. Satisfied that the knot was still secure, I let go with my other hand and put all my weight on my feet. I dangled my arms to let them rest, and my spent forearms began to relax. Then I made a familiar mistake – I looked down. I glanced behind me to take in the view of the smooth surface of the lake in the distance and the jagged rocks below, and as my eyes took in the glistening water, the army of pine trees, and the patches of snow that defied the July sun, my brain began to register the vast distance between my small, tired body and the hard, uneven ground fifty feet below me.
I must have hung out on that ledge for a bit too long, because Charlie called up to me to start moving. His encouraging words sounded faint from the distance they had to travel to my ears and weren’t strong enough to counteract the anxiety swirling in my head. It was as though a pebble of fear had been dropped into the calm pool of my brain, and as the ripples spread outward, they expanded to reinforce a truth that I had briefly managed to forget: I am afraid of heights.
My breathing had become uneven, and I was feeling a panic creep in. Sensing my hesitation, Charlie encouraged me to take it slowly. I reached behind me to dip my hands in the chalk bag clipped to my harness and worked the soft fabric ball between my fingers so the dry white powder would absorb the sweat on my hands—something to do while I thought about my next move. I reached up and crimped my fingers around a solid piece of rock. I started to pull myself up, lifting one foot off the ledge, but I couldn’t seem to move upward. I was frozen. What is it about a ledge? People jump off of ledges. People fall off of ledges. I knew this fear wasn’t logical—I’d already climbed an enormously challenging route with little hesitation. Would I be thwarted now by what should have been a comfortable few minutes of rest? In addition to my mounting panic, I was frustrated. And embarrassed. There was no reason I should take this long to start climbing again. No reason I shouldn’t be able to work through this. But there I was, frozen. After a few more attempts at moving beyond the ledge, I gave up and called out “Take!” to let Charlie know I wanted to come down.
“Gotcha!”
I sat my weight back in my harness and gripped the rope. “Lower!”
“You sure?” he said. I nodded. “Lowering.”
I held my legs out in front of me to avoid banging my knees on the sharp face of the bluff as he lowered me to the ground. When I felt solid earth beneath my feet, I untied the rope, thanked Charlie for the catch, removed my helmet, and took a few steps back to survey the route.
“Only about three more moves and you would have had it,” he said.
From the safety of the ground, I was able to see that the ledge I had just left was only about fifteen feet from the top. I had been so close to conquering the toughest climb I’d ever attempted, to reaching an awesome height in these mountains, to ending the day on an extremely high note.
How is it that, when you’re motivated, physically capable, and even on the brink of success, one little thought can doom you to failure?
One method for tackling the mental challenges of climbing was developed by Arno Ilgner, who took to the sport in the early 1970s, when climbers made their own harnesses by tying together rope and webbing. After decades of climbing and refining his methods, Ilgner developed “The Warrior’s Way” to help climbers reach their full potential. In 2003, he published the mental training guide The Rock Warrior’s Way.
One portion of the book outlines the process of weighing options, understanding risks, and committing to certain risks. Ilgner stresses the importance of practicing falls to understand the consequences of choices. He even offers falling clinics across the United States that teach students to fall safely and to learn how to deal with their fears. “How do you accept a fall?” he writes in The Rock Warrior’s Way. “Realize that falling is a natural part of the climbing process…embrace it, develop some proficiency at it, and see it as a tool and a skill you can comfortably apply to solve a climbing challenge. If you don’t develop this proficiency and familiarity, you will leak attention into fear of falling and have less to focus forward into climbing.”
Something about Ilgner’s words rang true, and I could see how they applied to other areas of my life. The power of thought over action (or inaction) is not unique to rock climbing. Any sport that requires endurance is affected by an athlete’s mental toughness: distance running, triathlons, cycling. I was surprised to find that even something known for its effects of balance and calm—yoga—can prove to be a test of mental strength.
I began practicing yoga in 2001. I’ve most intensely studied Iyengar yoga, which focuses on precise alignment in poses (asanas) with the use of props to ensure accurate postures, as well as thoughtful sequencing and holding each pose for a long period of time. This style of yoga also puts an emphasis on breath control (pranyama). For six years I attended classes at Yoga St. Louis with Bruce Roger, an instructor who has practiced since the 1970s and has studied yoga several times with B.K.S. Iyengar, the founder of Iyengar yoga. Although he is a kind man, Bruce is also strict and, in the typical Iyengar tradition, a bit harsh in his teaching style. “Widen your stance,” he would bark as I moved into Virabhadrasana II (Warrior Two), my feet already as wide apart as I thought they could go on my purple sticky mat, my right leg bent at a ninety-degree angle, my arms outstretched and reaching for the walls on opposite sides of the studio. He would have the class hold the pose until our arms spasmed in protest. Then, we’d turn to the opposite side and do it again.
Through years of practice, I had built strength in muscles I previously didn’t even know I had. I could gracefully move through a series of Sun Salutations. Salamba Sarvangasana (Shoulderstand)—holding all my weight on my shoulders, with my hands behind me resting on my back, and my legs pointed straight up toward the ceiling—was an absolute joy. But one particular pose remained my nemesis: Adho Mukha Vrksasana (Handstand). In theory, it shouldn’t have been a problem. It was easy for me to invert for Shoulderstand or Salamba Sirsasana (Headstand), and I had plenty of strength in my arms and shoulders. But every time I tried the handstand, I failed.
I would line my mat up perpendicular to the wall with the other students and position my hands a few inches from the wall, fingers facing the smooth wood paneling. I would remind myself to breathe slowly and evenly as I stretched my body in a V-shape, my rear end toward the ceiling. But as soon as I would kick one leg up, my breathing would falter and I would lose confidence. My arms would start to buckle, and I would give a half-hearted kick with the second leg before flailing back to the ground. Sometimes Bruce would stand next to me and grab my leg as I kicked, pulling me up into the pose, but I could never get there on my own. I had a mental block. I would work myself up, and psych myself out, somewhere between setting up my mat and preparing to kick. What if I fall sideways and crash into the person next to me? What if I kick too hard, my foot bounces off the wall, I lose my balance, and land on my head? Could I break my neck? The odds of breaking my neck were probably greater in Shoulderstand, the pose in which I had been cautioned to never turn my head. But something about going upside down took me out of my comfort zone, and the fear flooded in every time I attempted a handstand.
Judith Lasater, an iconic yoga teacher and founder of Yoga Journal magazine, writes in her book Living Your Yoga: Finding the Spiritual in Everyday Life, “The most important thing to know about courage is that it cradles your action even though you are afraid.” She suggests taking a pose that may be daunting, such as Handstand, and practicing it every day, but slowly and in stages. She outlines less-scary variations and small steps to take toward the full pose, and recommends staying conscious of the moments not only when fear creeps in, but also when courage carries you through.
“Remember, the point is not to do something just because it is scary,” she writes. “The point is to choose to do what is possible in the face of fear. That choice defines courage. And with it comes a sense of freedom.”
Long before our climbing trip to Utah, my husband, Chris, and I took a day trip to Jackson Falls in Southern Illinois’ Shawnee National Forest to transition from indoor gym climbing to real rock. We’d only been climbing together a few months, but Chris had spent his high school years backpacking and climbing, and he had picked it back up like riding a bike. I was growing more confident with my climbing, at least when anchored from above, but Chris preferred lead climbing, which is more difficult as the climber must clip the rope to bolts in the wall or rock as he ascends. He always led each route, and I needed to learn to at least belay him on lead if we were going to be able to climb outdoors as a pair.
We were setting up for our first route, and Chris was explaining the specifics of lead belaying to me when a group of college kids came up to the route next to us. As they talked, it became clear that most of the group had never been climbing before. They were trying to figure out how to anchor a top rope when only one person knew how to lead climb, belay, and set up the rope. The kids were determined, but if we didn’t help them, somebody was going to get hurt. Chris offered to set up their rope for them at the top, but he wanted me to belay him for the climb up.
My eyes darted between the group of kids and Chris, as he tied the rope into his harness. We went through the safety checks, and I took a deep breath. This was what we were there for, but I hadn’t planned on having an audience. I felt rushed and very unsure of myself. Luckily, the route was fairly easy, and Chris had no trouble getting to the top and setting up the rope.
We climbed cautiously throughout the day, and as he went up each route he was careful not to make any missteps. Then, on one of our last climbs of the day, about a third of the way up the route, Chris fell. I clamped my hand down near the belay device attached to my harness to keep the rope from pulling through. Because I weigh less than he does, the force of his fall pulled me off the ground. I stuck my feet straight out in front of me to keep myself from crashing against the bluff face. My hiking boots hit the rock and I bounced backwards, slowly lowering back to the ground. I looked up to make sure he was okay, and as he gazed down at me his face went from a look of wide-eyed shock to relief. Our conversation went something like this:
“I caught you!” I was pretty proud of myself.
“You did.” He still had that look of surprise-mixed-with-relief.
“You didn’t think I was going to, did you?”
“I have to say, I didn’t.” Then he laughed. “I’m impressed.”
That fall cemented our climbing partnership. Eventually, we got to the point where I knew exactly how much rope to feed on every climb, almost without looking. When he wanted to attempt a route slightly above his skill level, even if we were with stronger climbers, I would belay because he knew I would catch him. Once he had taken the fall, we were able to take our climbing to a higher level.
Mental fitness takes practice and discipline. But sometimes what we really need is trust—in ourselves, in our equipment, in our partners or teachers—to face our fears.
When I moved from St. Louis to Baltimore in 2010, I discovered an Iyengar yoga studio a few miles from my house, and I joined the Thursday evening class. Robyn Katz, my new teacher, had a similar style to Bruce, and the studio was remarkably similar to my old one, complete with a wood-paneled rope wall and shelves filled with blocks and blankets.
After the first few weeks of stiffness and relearning, most of the poses were becoming familiar again. One pose, however, presented an unexpected challenge: Salamba Sirsasana. When I tried to go up into Headstand, which used to be easy for me, I found myself paralyzed with fear. I would position my mat in line with the other students, place a folded blanket against the wall, interlace my fingers to form a support for the back of my head and rest the crown on the smooth grey wool of the blanket. I would press down, take my weight on my arms, lengthen my neck, and firm my core as I gently kicked my legs toward the ceiling. They would go about halfway up and then flop back down. This was the familiar failure of Handstand, made worse by the knowledge that I had done this pose successfully many, many times in the past.
“Calm your mind. Relax. It will come.” My teacher said confident words like these to me every week in class, as I found myself frustrated after yet another unsuccessful Headstand attempt.
Then one day, as I kicked up, Robyn took my ankles and placed my feet against the wall. This was it! I remembered this feeling, this different perspective. When she let go I lost my balance and toppled back to my mat. As I sat and waited for the rest of class to finish their inversions, I began to smile. Even though I needed help, I had gone upside-down. And I had fallen. And nothing catastrophic had happened.
A few weeks later, I attended class on a Saturday morning. I don’t know if it was my recent assisted-success or my weekend mood, but as I set myself up for Headstand I felt calmer than usual. I relaxed a bit as I prepared for the pose, I kicked up … and there I was, looking across the room, the world upside-down.
“See?” said Robyn, walking past me as she surveyed the row of inverted students. “It just comes.”
Fear is a funny thing. It’s so much inside one’s head, yet outside elements can play a large role in how it manifests. On climbing trips, I always let my husband or other climbers take the lead role while I followed behind, climbing only after someone else had set the rope at the top of a route. I was too scared, or maybe too comfortable, to push myself.
But on a trip to Horseshoe Canyon Ranch in Jasper, Arkansas, in 2009, I finally gained the confidence to lead a route on my own. Chris and I made the trip with another couple, our friends Ginny and Sean, and on our second day we met another climber who was traveling alone. He had a disheveled mop of blond hair and an affable smile. We had seen him climbing with other people the day before, and it was clear he knew what he was doing, so when he asked to join us we welcomed him. The addition of a fifth climber to our group made for a more relaxed atmosphere, and we could take turns lounging in the sun between climbs since there was an extra person to belay. Maybe it was the presence of our new friend for the day, with his easy-going demeanor, or maybe it was the way the rock was perfectly dappled with sunlight, but when the new guy suggested I lead a route, I surprised myself by saying, “Sure, why not?”
We found an easy-looking route in the guidebook, and I tied the end of the yellow rope to my harness. It felt strange to have the rope hanging below me instead of anchored securely above, but I didn’t want to show my nervousness. I put on my helmet and started up. Chris belayed, while our blonde friend took pictures to document my ascent. He scrambled up the lower part of the route with me, encouraging me as I climbed. I would grab hold, move my feet up, find my balance, reach up and clip a carabiner into one of the bolts … then clip the rope through a second carabiner tethered to the first. Repeat. I was methodical and determined, but I was also having fun.
Before I knew it, I had reached the top. I anchored myself to the metal rings bolted into the rock. I was done! This time, I turned around to take in the view and, instead of fear, I felt accomplishment. When I look at the pictures from that day, I see a strong, happy climber. Even before I’d reached the top, I looked confident, my eyes shining under my helmet, and a huge toothy grin on my face.
