You cling to a chalk-smeared precipice above jagged boulders and broken ground. The earth is 10m below you, but it seems a lot further. You shuffle rubber soled shoes over blank basalt, searching for the tiniest hint of friction.
Below, a rope runs from your harness through a drilled bolt. With every clawing move higher, more of the cord plays out into empty space. You find a slippery pocket for your right three fingers. Your heartbeat thuds in your ears as you delicately reach down for a clip. Your arm strength is failing, and the adrenaline is making your legs jangle like guitar strings.
With a desperate effort, you haul up a chunk of rope and try to attach it to the dangling quickdraw. But your fingers are slick with sweat and you fumble the clip. A sickening length of rope tumbles past your feet and tugs at the knot in your harness. Again, you pick up the rope, gripping it between clenched teeth like an enraged serial killer, and drag even more slack into the system. This time the snap gate closes smoothly around your umbilical cord. “Take!” you shout down to your belay partner, and relief floods your body.
Sport psychology
What I’ve just described is a fairly typical scenario for an inexperienced sport climber pushing their limits outdoors. “Sport” means climbing using pre-drilled bolts to protect the route; distinct from trad where the climber places their own removable gear in cracks and other features. Sport climbing only kicked off in the late 70s / early 80s, and its relative safety has persuaded many more climbers to challenge their physical limits.
But climbing (especially outdoors) isn’t just a physical test. Spend time with those who practice the sport and it won’t be long before you hear people talking about the head game. “My head game just isn’t right today.” “I need to fall on that section to sort out my head game.” “I drank too much coffee, and it’s messing with my head game.”
In a nutshell, the head game relates to the fear of falling. Vertigo is about as common as human fears get. Evolution tended to weed out those of our ancestors who became too blasé about doing handstands on cliff edges. Everyone (except maybe Alex Honnold) experiences this fear to a greater or lesser extent. What’s interesting is that this fear can be trained.
The pilgrim’s progress
I learnt to climb indoors as a kid. You start on a top rope (a rope that passes through an anchor at the top of the climb), and you quickly learn that it’s pretty safe. As long as your belayer keeps you snug, you just can’t fall on a top rope. Positive experiences of letting go and dangling for a bit train your brain that this activity is ok. Fear recedes, and you can climb to your limits.
Lead climbing is a different story. The rope starts on the ground, and you clip in as you go up. Come off the wall when you’re above a clip and you’re definitely going for a ride. Sometimes quite a big one. The imperative not to fall seems much more compelling on a lead route. This leads to all kinds of bad practices like over-gripping holds, grabbing gear and clipping from low, precarious positions.
I came to Tenerife in November to train my climbing. The south of the island is filled with sport crags (plus a few deep water spots) containing hundreds of routes to suit all experience levels. I’d been climbing easy trad in Scotland over the summer, and was looking forward to pushing my grade without having to worry about the gear popping out.
Exposure doesn’t bother me too much these days, providing I’m in a comfortable position. With solid placements for my hands and feet, I know I’m not going to fall off, any more than I would choose to hurl myself down the stairs. But climbing close to your limits isn’t the same. You’re searching for every ounce of friction, your arms are pumped like over-inflated balloons, and still gravity is peeling you off the wall.
Even when I got to the top of routes, I felt relief at surviving an ordeal, rather than elation at conquering a challenge. Like a soldier carrying messages across no man’s land, I’d had a lucky escape that day, but tomorrow I might not be be so fortunate. The excess fear and adrenaline was making me dread a sport I thought I loved.
Facing the fear
A little internet research taught me something that should perhaps have been obvious. You don’t overcome the fear of falling by avoiding falls. You have to take them. You have to take them a lot.
If you fall on a move (and the fall didn’t hurt), the next time you try the move tends to be a lot easier. Knowing that the fall is clean, you stop thinking about plummeting down and start thinking about climbing up. Unfortunately, this doesn’t generalise to all falls. In a way though, this is a good thing, as some leader falls (like those close to the ground or above protruding ledges) are genuinely dangerous.
The challenge is to train your mind to become comfortable with the idea of falling in safe terrain, while retaining a healthy respect for sketchy fall lines. So, I started taking practice falls on vertical or gently overhanging routes. I learnt to trust the system of harness, dynamic rope and competent belayer to hold and cushion the impact. I even learnt to enjoy the sensation of falling.
Practice falls are all well and good, but the real test comes from falls that you don’t want or expect. Sometimes your foot just slips and sometimes your arms are just too tired to hold on any more. I’ve taken more than a dozen real falls in the past couple of weeks.
Actions and consequences
I won’t deny that I’m still learning. My hands are covered in small cuts and both my legs are slashed with healing rope burns (top tip: try not to fall with the rope around your leg). My most recent lesson came when I swung off an overhang feet first onto a slab and sprained my ankle.
You can mitigate the risks, but you can’t eliminate them. Sudden impacts break people, and height creates ripe conditions for sudden impacts. Without this simple truth, outdoor climbing would just be a succession of bouldering problems. The head game is an integral part of the game.
For better or worse, I’m hooked on climbing now. When my ankle heals, I’ll be back at the crag clinging on by my fingertips. But you can be damn sure I’ll be inspecting the fall line first.
Afterword
If you enjoyed reading this article, check out my other posts about climbing the Inaccessible Pinnacle and Mont Blanc.
Video / photo credits
Deep water solo – Maia Bridges Smith
Over the roof – Maia Bridges Smith
Long arête climb closing image – Maia Bridges Smith