My dad and I used to go to the Mammoth Lakes area of California for two weeks every summer to camp. One of the campgrounds we often stayed at was Reds Meadow.
This time, I decided to go up the mountain by myself. I was raised pretty much free-range, so going out on my own was normal. I think it was the summer between fifth and sixth grade, though it could have been the year earlier.
I went up the hill from the steep, sloped area of pine trees, pine needles, and loose decomposed granite to a steeper rock outcropping. I continued up as the outcropping turned into a sheer rock face. I started climbing the rock face to reach a flatter spot above. I found myself spider-crawling up the face, stretching for handholds and footholds. As I approached the flat spot, the last few handholds were just at the edge of my reach.
I realized that the difficulty was slightly beyond my ability to confidently continue, so I did what comes naturally to most people—I looked down to try to retrace my path.
I suddenly realized I was higher on the cliff than I expected. Though it was only about a twelve-foot sheer drop to the transitional area of steep decomposed granite at the base, it was still far enough, in my estimate, to potentially cause injury or at least result in a painful landing at the bottom with no sure stopping for another twenty feet until the slope leveled out.
I started to attempt my descent but soon realized that I couldn’t see any of the footholds or handholds from the angle looking down. I could see them going up, but my legs and torso blocked the view going down.
Panic started to build. My arms were getting tired, my legs were starting to shake. I was ready to start yelling for help. I didn’t see another person around, so who would hear me?
Just as I was about to say “help” in a low voice, readying myself for a big yell, I thought better of it. The thought of the embarrassment of needing a rescue stopped me. What would my dad say?
So, I looked up. It wasn’t that far, and maybe if I just stretched a little more, I could make it. I would have to grab a splintered section of rock that I normally wouldn’t trust with my weight, but I tested it. It seemed okay. Anything would be better than the humiliation of needing a rescue.
But what about that cowboy movie I just saw with the rattlesnake? Was there a rattlesnake in the cracks? I hoped not.
Somehow, I made it onto the ledge. I was relieved but still near panic. The ledge was just big enough to sit on without hanging off. There were trunks of trees just out of reach, growing up from twenty feet below. I thought about jumping to a tree trunk, but it was too far.
A thought came to me: “Calm down and rest a moment; perhaps a solution will come to me.”
So, I sat there and looked around. It was beautiful. Trees to my right, a rock wall to my left and behind me, a drop-off in front, and a view of a large portion of the river valley and the mountains on the other side. I noticed the shimmer of the river and a gap on the other side of the stone that was polished from water. I could just make out a thin darker section that must have been a flow of water. How much water must flow over those rocks in the spring to polish the stone? I heard the sigh of the breeze in the treetops, though I could barely feel it. A hawk screeched way off in the distance. I spotted it flying toward the other side of the valley. The sun was warm.
I realized this was a special place and a special experience. I was calm and in the moment like never before.
At this point, I started thinking about how to get down. I knew that I couldn’t see the footholds below; that was the problem in the first place. I started to get a little scared. But if I thought about the climb, I could remember all the footholds and handholds.
Okay. I have a plan. I’ll start down and just place my foot where and how I remember. I thought about it again. I could remember each move, the way I stretched. Really, it was just the last few that I had to stretch near my limit. The last three, and then it would become less and less of a stretch to the bottom.
Time to go. The hardest part was laying on my stomach and pushing myself over the edge. I tried to go over sideways so I could see, but I found that to be impossible. Reorienting to feet first, I started to go over. I was scared again.
As I got most of my body over, I thought about where to put my foot and my hand. I was so focused that I was practically reliving the ascent. I put my body in the same position that it was before, feeling the position match up to how it felt earlier. I couldn’t see below, but I felt my foot find the foothold like someone’s hand was firmly guiding it. I had to reach for a blind handhold now. Again, it was like I was being guided to the spot. I was reliving the positions by how my body felt, matching up the present with the past, and, like locking a door, the position in the present and the position in the past would lock together. The top three were the hardest, and I was moving through them confidently.
I reached the soft granite base. I did it. I turned and started running down the hill, zigzagging like a skier. As it got less steep, I started going straight and jumping over obstacles. I was the happiest I had ever been.
I got back to camp and to my dad. He noticed something different in me, but I don’t remember telling him what had happened. I don’t think I did tell him.