Summiting Fear

The summer sun casts a certain light during the evening hours - it seems that the closer to sunset it gets, the more vibrant the canyon colors become. It's my favorite time in the canyon, but this particular day rather than basking in the glory of the canyon the changing light brought a sense of concern, which was quickly deepening to panic the closer the sun drew to the horizon.

We were several thousand feet above the valley floor below, situated on a ledge and contemplating the last few hundred feet and separating us from Squaw Peak while we coiled our rope in preparation for the next pitch. We'd been climbing since 9:00 that morning, and were quickly wondering if we would be able to make the top and trail down before night set-in - and climbing 2000 feet in the air in the dark is not my idea of fun.

About half-way up the next pitch the fear hit me like a sledgehammer, my fingers began to sweat, making it hard to hold onto the rock. I became paralyzed by the fear, clinging to the wall, too afraid to move up. In my fear I had convinced myself that my equipment would fail me: the rope would break, or my harness would rip. I'd ceased to trust, and was reduced to confidence in my own grip on the wall.

With some chiding from my belayer, and a quick reminder that my rope did, in fact, work - I made it up that pitch, and we made it up the last two, too. As we were hiking back down and discussing that moment of panic James (my belayer) commented that: "It's a lot like life, no? When we stop trusting God, family, or friends fear of the unknown can paralyze us." That statement and that moment have stuck with me, and whenever I'm tempted to panic, to fear the unknown, I remember the vivid colors of Rock Canyon and that summer evening.