The Zipper

If you ask me how this all happened I don’t exactly know, all I know it the before and after. The before started at five on a regular Saturday morning, Dean, Alex and I headed along Route 65, the red dust flying in our wake. When we left the apartment the stars still shone above, guiding us forward. Alex had come well prepared with a thermos of strong coffee and bagels. Dean was blasting Journey’s Don’t stop Believin’ through the stereo, and we were all singing along. I sat in the back stuffing my face as I watched the outlines of cacti. Behind us the sun was peeking near the horizon, a purple haze leading the way.

We reached our favorite spot, just as the lights in the sky were being turned off one by one. It was a quiet Saturday morning and only a singular silver truck was parked at the base of the red wall in front of us. Two other climbers were unloading their gear next to the silver truck. We extracted ourselves from Dean’s car and began unloading ropes, harnesses, bags of carabineers, chalk bags, climbing shoes, and the cooler of beer (for post climb of course!). Alex and I double-checked our gear as we went along.

We paused to glance up at the deep red wall ahead of us, each taking turns to point out where we wanted to climb or avoid. We all agreed to pause at the halfway ledge for rest and water, knowing full well that by the time we reached the ledge and the top, the midday Arizona sun would be ferocious. I led my usual stretching routine; Alex and Dean attempted to follow. I found a great spot to boulder and warm up and went at it. My taped fingers grasping the red mounds in front of me, hoisting myself upward, my toes pushing against the boulder, sans footholds. My tired body, waking every muscle I could ever think of. I made my way up the boulders, bringing my feet closer to my hands and then pushing upward and then repeating. After bouldering down, I started on lateral movement, forcing myself to stay as close to the wall as possible. I reached away to my left my left foot finding a place hold about four feet away, a great split movement, pushing off my right big toe, my right side rejoined the left. My front was covered in red dust as I hopped down to the ground.

The hills were bright orange by then and we could feel the sun heating up the earth below our feet. The other climbers had begun their climb, I could spot them clipping in and moving upward. They had great form, sticking close to the wall, moving legs first then arms, four-limbed spiders, their ropes descending like a silk web.

After our warm up, we stripped down from out sweats and thermal tops. I had volunteered to lead the route; placing hexcentric clips into the wall to safely guide us upward. We reviewed the planned route one more time and I then I was off with a bag of chalk and hexcentrics clipped to the back of my harness. My fingers found the first hold easily and I pushed myself upward off the wall with my toes. After about four feet I found a crack to place the first hex into, climbing further upward, pausing every four feet to place hexcentrics. My rope followed me, bouncing off the wall underneath me. The visible footholds were becoming less frequent and I had to delicately balance against the smooth wall surface, using my arms more than I liked to.

I heard Alex call up that she has hooked in and was making her way up. I could feel her weight at the end of the rope and I shouted to Dean for more rope. I could see the half way ledge about 30 feet ahead of me. My arms ached from reaching, my hands cracked and sliced, and chalk powdered my face. Just make it to the ledge and you can rest, I told myself. I thought of the water in my bottle, sitting and letting my arms relax. I was looking forward to watching the sunshine through the cinnamon rock arch. The sun had begun beating against the wall, warming the soil in my hands. I reached back with my left arm for some more chalk, the fingers on my right hand firmly grasping a small hold. I heard a faint crumbling sound and looked up to see the source of the noise.

Now here I am, three months, three surgeries, and two physical therapists later. I sit out on my deck looking toward the deep red hills at sunset and think about that climb, and those before it. Recalling the snow capped mountains in New Hampshire, spotting a cougar in the Rockies, and the red dust of Arizona. My hands are no longer dry and cracked, I never knew my fingernails could be long and shapely. My calluses on my palms have disappeared. The fine outline of muscle along my back has faded and only my arms continue to work.

I have learned to rely upon my arms to propel me forward. For now I ignore the fatigue that plagues my thin arms, I just want to move upward not backward. Of course I wish I could be climbing instead of sitting here listening to Lucy, instruct me on the proper form of lifting oneself. I’ve lost my adrenaline rush and the uninterrupted view for miles and miles of desert with no one to bother you about your pain levels of the day.

Some say I’m lucky; that surviving a zipper fall is a rarity. Lucky is not the word I would choose to describe my situation. My toes will never grasp for holds, I will never push off my legs to move up a wall, and I will never shimmy up a squeeze chimney.

I long for the days of strong coffee and bagels at five in the morning.