Fissure
Thin shards of sedimentary rock blanketed the floor of the ledge, which I did of course reach (as you might have surmised, based on my continuing blog posts). This horizontal gash in the cliff was deep enough that I could comfortably sit with my backpack on, now guarded from the wind which continued to blast up the face of the immense stone in short fits. The gap was tall enough that I could sit upright, with a few inches between the top of my head and the overhanging, crumbling stone above. And it was likely wide enough that I might be able to curl up and lay down for a while – though that thought may have been the furthest thing from my mind in that moment.
While I now sat in comparative safety, with my feet hanging above the route that I had impressively just climbed, I still acknowledge that I was not off of the cliff yet. I may have had a momentary sense of security and shielding from the prevailing winds (which, it was becoming clear, had spent the past millennium pummeling this face of the crag much more aggressively than the others), I was still fully aware of two unfortunate details. One: there was nothing for me in my current position, save for the view and my own thoughts. It was still only the half-way point between myself and perceived safety, and staying here for long would only allow my nerves time to work their way back in. And two: this gash in the wall was by no means a safe place to linger. As I caught my breath and attempted to lower my heart rate, I did my best to not dwell on the cracks in the stones that hovered just above my head, or those behind my back, nor of the clear signs of active erosion that surrounded me (including the giant hunk of stone which now lay restfully in pieces, perhaps seventy or so feet below). But these features of my current situation were all securely seated in the forefront of my mind, as I caught my breath and tried to lower my heart rate.
The sight lines were open for dozens of miles from this perch. The forest below swished and swayed in the wind. I could see visible swells crossing the landscape towards me – waves of wind crossing the see of trees, to come crashing into the rock face on which I sat, and erupting up the wall past me. I was a field mouse, hiding in a tiny fissure of the seawall.
The shadow of the mountain made a dark crescent along the ascent of the neighboring slopes, and the air was still crisp and clear. It was beautiful here, despite my building concerns over how I might work my way out of this one, without resorting to screaming for help for hours or days, or sleeping on a ledge that might at any moment become an over-engineered trash compactor. As I said, I was only halfway up the face of the cliff. I had seen no indication that the remainder of the climb was going to be any easier (or even possible). As the adrenaline subsided, I once again started to harbor my old thought patterns, “This way or that?”
“Meditate.”
This may have been my intuition whispering to me again. Or, it could have simply been my logical mind. At that point in my life, I was at least vaguely aware of the importance of a calm mind in difficult and dangerous situations. Rarely had anything positive come from attempting to writhe my way out of a bad situation while in the grips of fear. This, I’m sure for many of you, might bring up a valid question, as I’ve only just spoken about experiencing an adrenaline rush, and how it propelled me up the cliff to the relative safety of the ledge on which I now sat. Isn’t that simply fear by another name? You could argue that, of course. But I would suggest that my sudden outburst of movement wasn’t operated by fear – even though it was certainly triggered by it. But after the initial panic which provoked my fight or flight response, my mind, during that short climb, was consumed by one, singular purpose: get up this cliff, now. There was no back and forth, or consideration of the consequences of failure. As mentioned, I wasn’t drawn to look down, or to think about falling. I only looked at where I needed to go.
I’m not certain why it is that some of the threats we face elicit a carnal fight-or-flight response, while others only trigger overwhelming fear (and thoughts of consequences). I’ve had my fair share of moments in which I’ve found myself frozen with panic (rather than driven to swiftly overcome the threat, by whatever means possible).
I suspect that there may be multiple factors at play here. The threat of being beaten and robbed is not quite the same as that of being ripped from a cliff by the wind. And perhaps some mortal threats simply don’t register as such, until it’s too late for the mind to react in any meaningful way. I’ve had a gun pointed at my face before. And I remember that my first instinct was to talk, rather than to try to overpower or neutralize. Actually, my first thought was to the fact that I was still recouping from having been robbed only a few days prior – and so I earnestly petitioned my assailants to belay their assault, for the time being. And in that particular instance, talking did prove to be the right choice, as it led to my survival, with only a bruised cheek and a stolen cell phone. I suddenly suspect that there might be more to this adrenaline system than meets the eye – some measure of intuitive, basal wisdom, which is able to recognize when quick, violent action might be helpful, and when it will only bring about more harm.
I breathed in deep, soaked in one more view of the majestic landscape, and then closed my eyes. I continued to inhale through my nose, trying to focus all of my attention on the cool air that swirled against the back of my sinuses. The irregular patterns of the wind rushing through the pines below surely stole my attention. But truthfully, I don’t think that this has any impact on the benefits of meditating, as some might argue. Whether you’re focusing your attention on your breath, or the sensation of sitting on your comfortable cushion (or lack thereof, in my case), or on some external, natural sound, you’re still stealing your focus away from those thoughts which would otherwise consume your energy and raise you’re cortisol – thoughts like “How in the hell am I going to get off this damn mountain now?”
Rather abruptly, the clear visual of myself climbing a tree surfaced in my mind. A pine tree, specifically. Confused, I noted the thought, and then attempted to let it go. I tried to go deeper into the meditative state, returning my focus to my breath. The wind rushed past my legs again. Distant birds called out. Damnit. I just wasn’t feeling it. I opened my eyes, having only managed to meditate for a few minutes. Though in full disclosure, this wasn’t all that bad for me. I’ve never been very successful at going inward and silent for more than 10-15 minutes, save for the odd occasion in which I’ve really pushed myself. But then that brings up all sorts of questions about where one draws the line between a beneficial stress relief, and pushing towards yet another unwavering goal. All that to say, a few minutes was better than nothing.
I looked past my knees, down at the pine trees that stood below. If only one of them had secured a footing this high up, I might have used it to bypass this portion of the climb. It was becoming apparent that I was much more comfortable with climbing trees than I was cliffs. Of course I was – I’d been doing it since I was seven.
“Climb a tree,” I muttered to myself. I was annoyed.
I took a swig from my water bottle as I peered up and around my perch, to both my left and my right, assessing any possible paths up the cliff face. I didn’t bother to look down – though this time, it was because I knew damn well that going back the way I came was an impossibility. The wild acrobatics I’d performed to get up that last stretch of wall would certainly not be replicable – not in reverse, and not with my mind starting to become clouded.
I scanned further out from my immediate ledge, for any distant paths which might present themselves. Craning my neck, I leaned out over the drop-off, trying to trace a path from my destination at the top of the cliff down to where I sat. I could still see the tips of branches and leaves up there. Something caught my eye, about 3/4 of the way up the final bit of rock face that lay between my altitude and the hidden trees above.
Two pine saplings had taken root and were growing from a crack in the rock wall, which extended the full height from the very top, down to the height at which I sat – though about ten to fifteen feet to my right.
I hadn’t even noticed those saplings until that moment, much less the narrow, vertical fissure which had split the cliff into two. Perhaps I could use that crack, and climb this rock the same way that real climbers do.
I scanned the space between where I sat and where the fissure began. It wasn’t far, as the crow flies perhaps. But it was strikingly far, if you accounted for the effects of gravity, and the distance to the boulders below. What I’m saying is that there appeared to be even fewer sure footings and graspable features on this stretch than on that last bit, which had sent me scrambling for the ledge. But I looked back up at those saplings, as I tucked my water bottle back into the side pocket of my backpack, and then cinched the straps as tight as I could.
“Climb a tree,” I muttered to myself.
