FINISH HOLD - #25 - Good Friction

A cold wind whips through Prescott, Arizona, howling as it weaves past trees and my house. Out in the driveway the wind is so strong it’s hard to stand. I unlock my truck and climb in. With a turn of the key, it gives a whine of protest before starting. As I drive through downtown an unseen force pushes me from side to side. The big thermometer on top of the bank reads 55. Good friction. I turn right on Senator Highway for the first time in six weeks.

About eight weeks ago I fractured a vertebra, not too badly, just a little stress fracture. The doctor’s orders were six weeks rest followed by another six of physical therapy. I have spent the past six weeks off the rock, patiently resting and planning my return. When I broke my back I was knocking on the door of a new level of difficulty, a point I had always been told I would never reach.

Breaking my back sent me into a spiral of depression. As the weeks progressed I became an irritable shell of my former self, snapping at roommates for illogical reasons. When I began climbing four years ago, I immediately saw it’s potential as a medication. I didn’t need that Zoloft or that Ritalin. All I needed was the feeling of cold sharp granite beneath my fingers, and all my problems would melt away. For the first time since I began climbing I couldn’t take my medication. Instead I was forced to use other, less satisfying outlets.

I’ve spent the last month and a half wandering the Prescott National Forest looking for new boulders to climb once my injury healed. My sleepless nights have been spent perusing the Internet for bouldering pictures and reading climbing magazines. I fiend for what I can’t have. Now my back hasn’t hurt for two or three weeks. I feel like climbing is an option, so I’m filling a water bottle and packing a snack — I’m going to Groom Creek.

My anxiety grows the closer I get to the boulders. As I wind up the cracked highway my fingertips start to sweat. I wipe them on my usual climbing pants, tattered brown corduroy’s, unworn for weeks.

I roll down the window and hold my left hand out in the cold, drying wind like I always do. My heart is in my throat and my mouth is a desert. I’m worried about my back. Could I break it again that easily? Could the wrong move send that familiar chill down my spine once again? ‘I must do this,’ I tell myself. I need to know.

I park next to The Island, the quick fix bouldering area of Groom Creek. Groom is Prescott’s best regarded bouldering area, and one of my favorite areas in Arizona. There are a couple of people working on Facelift, the area classic. ‘I hope I can still climb that,’ I think to myself as I walk to another, easier problem.

I un-zip my shoe bag for the first time in weeks. I can smell the dirty pair of Evolves as I pull them out, still dressed in dust from Hueco, Tramway and Stoney Point. I pull on the right one first, then the left. I greet the tight fit with a smile. I grab the start hold, a huge dark grey granite flake. Then I position my toes on the wall, my heart pounding.

I pay extra attention to my feet as I climb, positioning then carefully on the positive edges and smears. Then I mantle and decide that doom is, in fact, not impending. On my way back to my crashpad I grab the start holds on Worst Crimps at Groom Creek, a hard vertical crimp problem, hesitating before putting my left foot on the rock. The holds are sharp and toothy. The kind that tears skin after just a couple tries. With my back in mind I pull and almost make the first move, the hardest. I place my pad and climb Worst Crimps easily second try. The rock is so dry and cold that every tiny edge and chalk-caked sloper feels like the biggest of buckets.

Pine needles crunch under my feet as I walk into the forest to use the facilities. The wind chills me in my tee shirt. I take the time to study my surroundings. Beyond the ponderosas a mackerel sky reflects the golden evening sun. Oaks grow next to the boulders, hanging over them in awkward positions. Green shrubs dot the otherwise brown ground.

I move on and continue to surprise myself. Virtually every problem I try I climb in just a few minutes. My back pain seems to be in a dormant state, so once my skin is gone and my muscles are tired I decide to quit while I’m still ahead.

As I walk back to the truck I stop to admire the way the trees filter the sunlight so it barely reaches the soft, sandy soil. I walk on, the wind howling above me, congratulating me on an afternoon well spent. I get in my truck and start it. It chirps happily. I turn back onto the highway and smile. My heart is still in my throat, my fingers still sweating. For the first time in six weeks, I’m happy. My depression has dissolved. It blew away in the wind.