The Sharp End of Life. Dierdre Wolownick
as I wallowed in an abyss of frustration and silent shrugs.
She also helped her brother survive his childhood, acting as a buffer between him and me. As a toddler, Alex would push all of my buttons; in those moments, I understood viscerally how some parents can be driven to violence. Inconsolable as an infant, incredibly stubborn as a toddler, obstinate without limit, he put all of my parenting skills, patience, and self-control to the test. Daily. Stasia the Diplomat was always able to tell when he’d pushed me too far. Right before I would start to consider tossing him through a window, she would come take his hand and gently lead him away from the scene. Somehow, she always knew.
After I’d calmed down, or cleaned up his mess, or both, reminding myself that I really did love him and he would grow up someday, they would come back from their little walk. And each time they came strolling back into range, hand in hand, his dimples and her sweet, knowing smile would remind me again of the big picture. I have no idea what she told him on those walks, and she doesn’t remember, but all would be well again.
I rarely saw other adults in our new neighborhood in West Sacramento. The parents worked and left their children in daycare or school. Even on weekends I saw only garage doors going up and down as they rushed in and out doing all their errands. My experience of suburbia was desolation. Emptiness. It was just me and the kids. And a surly, uncommunicative spouse.
It made no sense to me. Nothing had happened between us, that I was aware of, that could have made him dislike me so much. But I’d seen him treat his family the same way, and it didn’t seem to bother them. Was I just too sensitive? Was this what marriage was really like?
I was sure it wasn’t . . . but that left me with only questions.
When Charlie was a child, no one had heard of some of the disorders or syndromes we now know people can suffer from, like autism, obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD), or attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD). I wouldn’t learn about them myself until years later, when some of my friends had little boys whose behavior seemed to mirror my husband’s. But back then, as we whirled through each day, my main job, besides caring for my children and our home, was to do whatever was necessary to avoid an outburst. To appease.
Old habits die distressingly hard.
eight
YEARS LATER, AS I watched others at the climbing gym, I often found myself moved in ways I would have never expected. Seeing a good climber glide up the wall is like watching ballet; the grace, agility, unexpected movement, the sheer beauty of it often captivated my gaze as I shrugged into my harness, pulled on my shoes, or just waited my turn. To a lumpy, nearly sixty woman who had just begun to climb, the sight of someone older than me, like my friend Mark, making his way skillfully up the wall was thrilling.
Mark was inspiring. All of the climbers I’d met and befriended so far were young. Supple. Strong. Their muscles rippled. Besides just climbing, they ran or skied, flew on hang gliders or climbed ice. They did pull-ups and push-ups and all kinds of contortions that I knew I’d never be able to do.
Mark had shoulder issues. A hearing problem. A foot thing he mentioned now and then. He was retired, and he climbed—hard. At least from the point of view of a beginner who only climbed indoors, it looked hard.
A climber I could relate to!
He loved to teach, and I wanted to learn it all. His climber friends—and there were lots of them—became my climber friends. It was the best kind of therapy.
With a sport where one mistake can kill you or your partner, it’s good to have a mentor who can show you what to do and what not to do. How to thread the rope through the belay device. How to pull it back so you have control over your partner’s descent without burning your hand as the rope slides through your fist. What to clip to your harness in case you fall off your climb. Even something as simple as tying your shoes—I had no idea that the laces on some climbing shoes could affect their fit and their grip on the wall. I watched Mark and all my new friends at the climbing gym, studied them and their moves, their choices. And tried it all.
I knew I could do this. If I could learn to play the piano, master several languages, and travel the world by myself—then I could surely learn to climb a rock. That thought flashed through my mind over and over as I worked hard to follow the others. Especially after we started climbing outdoors.
AFTER A FEW MONTHS of climbing in the gym together, eating pizza and drinking ciders and beers together downtown after our sessions, my climbing tribe decided it was time for me to climb outdoors. Laura, Mark, Bob, and some others I didn’t know yet were going to climb at Cosumnes River Gorge, about an hour from Sacramento, and they invited me to go with them.
I woke several times the night before. As my daughter often puts it, adventures are exciting! She gets so psyched about starting her thousand-mile bike rides that she rarely sleeps well the night before, either.
We took Highway 50 as it snaked up into the Sierra, before turning onto a smaller road, and then an even smaller one. The others chatted during the ride, but I just listened. They had been climbing for years and the more they talked, the more ignorant I felt. I didn’t know any of the Sierra climbing areas they spoke of. I marveled at how Mark and Bob, both older climbers, could recount how they’d made their way up a particular route. I doubted that I would ever remember every move of a climb like that.
It was March, and I shivered from the cold as I shouldered my pack, stepped over the metal guardrail, and followed them onto the trail. Everyone but me wore special, rugged shoes they called approach shoes, all the color of dirt and the outdoors. I was wearing light, white running shoes.
We hiked single file into the gorge. The others pointed out sticks growing on both sides of the sandy, narrow trail.
“Poison oak. Don’t touch it. Don’t even get it on your clothes.” They each had a poison oak story to share.
I looked intently each time they pointed one out, but all the sticks rising from the sand looked exactly the same to me. I’d never learned to recognize poison ivy in the east, and it looked like I was going to be equally unsuccessful identifying poison oak in the west.
The trail became rockier and steeper, and soon we were scrambling between trees and boulders, down into a narrow gorge. The Cosumnes River rushed past, thirty or forty feet below. It was swollen with spring snowmelt and, at times, we had to shout to be heard over the roar.
When we reached the base of our climb, everyone put their packs down and started pulling out gear, some of which I had never seen before. I knew I’d learn what it was used for soon enough, but for now, I focused on my harness and staying warm. The layers I’d worn, a turtleneck and flannel shirt topped with a thick fleece jacket, were clearly not going to be enough. I jammed my gloved hands into my pockets and stamped my feet.
I knew how to belay in the gym, but this was real rock, and the consequences of a fall were much more serious. I watched Laura climb a short route that followed a crack twenty-five feet up a sloping, curving face of granite. She pushed her hands into the crack and pulled on them. I winced. That had to hurt.
In just a few minutes, she was at the top. Confused, I stepped back and tilted my head to examine the top of the wall. Mark explained that while I’d been getting my harness on, Bob had walked back up to the top of the small formation we’d walked across on our way in, and set up the toprope. I craned my neck more to get a better look.
The anchor bolts looked like they were right on the edge of the wall. Those metal rings, permanently attached to the rock, would hold the anchor that would in turn hold the climbers’ rope as they took turns climbing up and lowering off. The image of someone setting up an anchor at that exposed point, while leaning over the top to work on the knots, left my stomach in knots. Probably not a good sign for a climber.
Whenever someone started getting ready to climb, I offered to belay, but each time someone else stepped up to the chore. They were friendly and jovial