by Julia Moore
During the belay check, I forget my climbing partner’s name. Orion? Blaze? Something hippie and granola. I dig through my memory, but fail to unearth a name for the lanky figure with the loose man-bun. He yanks the rope knotted to my harness and thumbs his carabiner to make sure it’s locked. In return, I check that his ATC belay device is properly loaded so that it can feed out the rope and break a fall properly.
“Alright, Piper,” he correctly addresses me, “We’re both locked in.” It bothers me that I can’t recall his name; I hoped to make a good impression on this trip. I’ve seen him countless times around the rock-climbing gym but never interacted beyond brief pleasantries.
I am capable of creating meaningful connections with others, I repeat in my head, not for the first time since agreeing to this endeavor. This climbing trip was entirely organized by Ingrid, a climber I know from the gym. Our workouts typically end around the same time, so we’ve fallen into the habit of chatting while walking out of the locker room to our respective cars in the parking lot. It was during one of those encounters that she mentioned the trip she was putting together.
“There’s a gorgeous crag about two hours south of here,” she explained while fishing her car keys out of her drawstring. “I’ve been trying to get a group to make a weekend trip of it. Have you climbed outdoors before?” I shook my head no. “That’s alright. It’s pretty beginner friendly. I’ve convinced a few of my other buddies from the gym to go—it’ll be their first outdoor climb, too.” Ingrid handed me her phone so I could add my number to her contacts. “No need to decide right away, I’ll put you in a chat so we can work out carpooling and supplies and stuff. You can get back to me closer to the trip.”
I stayed silent in the group chat in the weeks leading up to the trip, even when Ingrid asked for a headcount. Although it sounded exciting, I didn’t consider myself a proper climber—I only joined the gym after winning an office fundraiser raffle for a free yoga class and day pass at the facility. As it turned out, the session was a productive distraction from the moving boxes that sat unpacked back at my new apartment. It was that distraction that led me to purchase a membership, effectively committing to calluses, broken nails, and all.
Later, as I sat in my kitchen eating a microwaved box dinner for one, it hit me that in the five months since I graduated college and entered the corporate world, I hadn’t made a single friend in my new city. I never considered myself an extrovert, but I never struggled to find a small group of friends before. Not like this, at least. I messaged Ingrid privately and asked if it was too late to RSVP to the trip.
Ingrid was right about the site being gorgeous; in fact, everything about climbing outdoors is enhanced. Attacking the face of the cliff is a dance—calculated, intimate, each move connected to the last. Using the toes of my climbing shoes, I delicately skim the thin groove along the rock until I find balance. The hold welcomes each foot, inviting me to keep ascending towards the sky. I flex my toes and spring my knees as I reach up, latching callused fingerpads onto the coarse edge of the wall. I feel connected to the glaciers and storms across millions of years that forged this path as if it were just for me at this exact moment. My muscles burn with a satisfying ache each time I stretch my body to accept the gift.
“Take!” I call to my nameless partner when I reach the top of the wall, and the rope loses its remaining slack. I relax my joints and straighten my arms, resting on my skeleton away from the wall before releasing my fingers from their holds.
I sway back and forth, high above the others, suspended by nothing but rope, and it’s like I am seeing the world for the first time. The sun sinks lazily into the western horizon line, painting streaks of orange and pink across the sky. The rock wall in front of me practically glows in this light. Something raw, something elemental, is evoked inside of me as I’m surrounded by rock and sky. I close my eyes and breathe chalky air deep into my lungs.
Since I’ve started climbing, I’ve realized what an individual sport it can be. I am in control. Up here, there’s no need to memorize a group chat full of names, or for mantras stolen from self-help books and bloggers. Up here, it’s just me and the rock. With one last look at the portrait around me, I call below: “Ready to lower!”
“Lowering,” the voice on the ground responds, and I am slowly let down.
In the fleeting daylight, we finish pitching hammocks and tents and haul wood into the fire pit. I follow Cecille, my assigned bunkmate, into our shared tent to grab some extra chairs.
“Glad to see you survived,” she says with a wink.
I radiate warmth and authenticity, and people are drawn to me, I mentally recite.
“More than survived, I felt alive,” I say with a laugh, trying to match her playful attitude. “I wasn’t too worried, though. Seems like I have a pretty experienced partner.”
“You do, indeed. Atlas has been climbing since he was fourteen. I’d let him belay me over a pool of hungry sharks.” Atlas. I make a point to engrave the name in my mind. “So,” she continues as she cleans her hands of chalk and grime with hand sanitizer, “how long have you been climbing?”
“Four months, I think.”
“You’re still a newbie, then! That’s brave of you to make it out for the trip; climbing au naturel is nothing like climbing in a gym, although I’m sure you learned that today. I think Sarah and Mick—the married couple you carpooled with? They’re the other new climbers. They’ve been climbing for about eight months.” She rolls out the sentences succinctly, all in one breath. I think back to my parking lot conversation with Ingrid. Did she say there would be more first-time climbers on this trip?
“Has… everyone else been climbing long, then?” I ask.
“Oh, yeah. Minus yourself, Sarah, and Mick, we’ve been making trips like these every other month for, like, two years now.”
“Oh.” It sets in that I am surrounded by a group of close friends that quite literally put their lives in each other’s hands. And, here I am. Someone who holds no true stake in their lives. A stranger. An infiltrator to their community. “I’m feeling a bit wiped from the day. Do you mind if I sit back and read in here for a bit?”
“Um, yeah I do.” I blink at her. “We’re about to head out to the fire! You can read later, everyone’s dying to get to know you better.” She flashes me an excited smile and ducks under the tent flap with two chairs tucked under her arm. I stare after her, and the alternative of hiding inside with my book entices me. I decide against it, take a calming breath to reorient myself, and follow her out to the fire pit with the rest of the chairs.
I am confident in my presence, and I can make a lasting positive impression.
Before I even set up my seat, an earthy-smelling object is waving under my nose. I stagger backwards and scrunch my face at the invasion.
“Woah, Piper. Never seen weed before? You do know it’s legal now, right?” The hand holding the blunt is connected to my climbing partner, who I can now identify as Atlas. I glance around the circle and see that most of the others are also smoking.
“Yes,” I say tentatively. “I’ve just… never tried it.”
“Want to?”
I shake my head no and take my seat. He shrugs and passes it across to Cecille, and I immediately feel a sense of shame, like this was a test and I selected the wrong answer. She takes deep drag, closes her eyes, then erupts into a smoky coughing fit. The rest of the group howls with laughter.
“Shut it,” she laughs, before pushing out another round of coughs. She turns to me and says, “I don’t really smoke except during these trips.” I nod like I understand. A silent calm falls over the group as the few blunts circle.
“Hey, Piper,” Ingrid leans forward in her seat to address me. “You work in accounting, right?” She turns to the others. “Piper just moved here, fresh out of college.”
“Yep, that’s right.”
“My fiancé’s in accounting, too.”
“Where does he work?”
Hushed giggles pass around the circle, but Ingrid smiles kindly. “She works for a small e-commerce startup.”
“I’m sorry, I…” I trail off, unsure how to articulate the end of that sentence. I didn’t know you were engaged? I shouldn’t have assumed your engagement was to a man? Another wrong selection in this awful test.
“You don’t have a problem with that, right?” The accusation came from Atlas, and even though he delivered it with a mellow, playful grin on his face, I feel my heart drop.
“Oh my God, absolutely not! I promise, I—”
“Don’t worry, Piper, Atlas is just being an asshole.” Ingrid says the last word with a look that practically bores a hole through Atlas’s head. He gives her the finger, and her glare is replaced with a playful smirk.
“Yeah, I’m just messing. You’re cool, Piper.” He takes another hit of the blunt, then starts snorting laughter. Out of nowhere, the group starts bellowing to the point of gasping for breath. Next to me, Cecille is tearing up from how hard she’s laughing. It’s a laughter that can only be elicited from a deep inside joke. One I am either not privy to or simply the butt of, so I politely smile to nobody in particular and take a long drink as the conversation ebbs and flows somewhere above my comprehension until the fire begins to sputter out. The second Ingrid lets out a yawn and suggests calling it a night, I voice my agreement and excuse myself towards the tent.
“Everything okay?” I turn over in my sleeping bag and see that Cecille has entered our tent. I say I’m fine, just tired. She nods but crosses her arms and gives me a look that makes me feel like she is inside my head, reading my thoughts.
“I didn’t realize everyone was already close when I agreed to come,” I hear myself tell her. “When Ingrid invited me, there was an implication that this trip would be for new climbers and… I don’t know. It’s all a bit overwhelming and I… I feel like Ingrid misled me.”
“What did Ingrid tell you?” She sits down atop her sleeping bag and listens attentively.
“She said other beginners would be coming for the first time, too.”
“Well, yeah. She was talking about Mick and Sarah.”
“I know that now. I just thought everyone would be a beginner and in my situation. She said she’s been trying to make this trip happen for a few months?”
Cecille purses her lips before responding. “Ingrid is very empathetic, always the first to lend a hand to anyone she meets. I’m positive anything she said to mislead you was completely accidental. You heard Ingrid tell us you’re new to the area. She probably thought inviting you on our trip would be a nice way for you to have a good time and meet some new people.”
I realize two things: I probably just offended the entire group, and I might actually enjoy becoming friends with Cecille, even if she is a bit blunt.
“I am having a good time. And I’ve enjoyed getting to know everyone, really. This is the most interest anyone has shown in me since I moved.” It strikes me how true that is.
“Well, I’m glad to hear that. We really are happy to have you here, Piper.” But her voice seems stony and reserved. I open my book and turn to face my wall of the tent, hearing rustling on her side as she climbs into her sleeping bag. My eyes glaze over the text illuminated by the lamplight, but the words lose any meaning before reaching my brain. Was her tone curt because of what I shared, or was she just tired? Or was I just tired—did I only imagine a bitter tone? After an uncomfortable amount of time and silence, I close my book in defeat. Cecille is lying on her back with her eyes closed. I reach to the space between our heads where the lamp sits and flick it off. The only sounds of the night are crickets chirping.
“I watched you today,” Cecille says in the dark. I open my eyes but don’t respond. “You have the ease and comfortability of a highly advanced climber. Seriously, I never would’ve guessed you’ve today was your first outdoor climb, let alone the fact you’ve only been climbing for a few months. I hope I’m not overstepping by saying this, but you should learn to trust other people as much as you trust some rocks and a rope. Do that, and you’ll get along just fine.”
I wait for her to say more until her breathing steadies. Then, I toss her words around my head for any potential hidden meaning until I drift off.
I wake up feeling refreshed and inspired. Sunrise has already passed, but the air is still cool, and the ground is still dewy. Something savory penetrates the air. I look over at Cecille, who is laying on her back with her eyes closed. Quietly, I unzip the tent door. The fire has been relit, and my belay partner is cooking eggs over a camping skillet.
“Morning, Atlas.” I smile about remembering his name.
“Hey, Piper! Glad to meet another early bird like me.” I do not correct him that I am usually asleep until close to eleven a.m. on the weekends. “Are you hungry?” I nod. He prepares a paper plate and scoops a generous helping of scrambled eggs for me. “You brought a cooler of orange juice, if I’m not mistaken. Mind grabbing that so we can have a proper feast?”
I take my plate of eggs into the tent and grab for the grocery bag of orange juice cartons. The smell wakes Cecille; her eyes flutter open, and she groggily sits up. I give her my friendliest grin and a cheerful good morning. She returns my smile, rouses up, and joins myself and the other waking campers for breakfast.
By the time the sun is well in the sky, we make our way out of the woods and to the wall. Ingrid jogs towards me and falls into pace by my side.
“Did Atlas talk to you about climbing for the day?”
“No, what’s up?”
“Well, he wanted to get in a bit of bouldering, so he won’t be able to be your belay partner. I was also aiming to get some bouldering in, so I was wondering if you and Cecille wanted to partner up?”
I wonder if Cecille confided in Ingrid what I shared in the tent. “I’d also be happy to join you in bouldering,” I say with my best smile.
“Oh… I think Cecille really wanted to top rope climb, if that’s okay with you.” I purse my lips, wondering if I burned a bridge. “But we can work things out so you have a chance to boulder with us before we leave tomorrow!” She adds quickly, misreading my worry for disappointment.
She moves along to catch up with Atlas, and Cecille replaces her by my side. “I was eyeing a new route that I think I’m going to try out today,” she says. I smile at her, but it feels a bit forced. My inspiration to connect is shaken. Do they think I hate them? Are they going to invite me back? I realize how desperately I want to continue spending time with this group. You’re spiraling, Piper. Stop it. I try to pull another mantra to calm myself down, but all I can come up with are thoughts of self-doubt.
Cecille must read my mind like she did last night, because she elbows me and says, “Ingrid and her fiancée are hosting a barbeque next weekend before the weather gets bad. I already told her this morning that you’re gonna be my plus-one, and she was hyped. If you’re free, that is.” I give her another wordless smile, wondering if the others want me crashing another one of their functions. I force those thoughts out and instead think back to Cecille’s words from the night before about trusting others. If Cecille says I’m wanted, I’ll choose to believe her.
“That sounds awesome,” I force the energy to convince myself I mean it more. “Text me the details when we’re all home.”
At the wall, Cecille and I begin our belay check. I thread my end of the rope through the ATC as she ties a knot to her harness. I pull on it to make sure it’s secure, then check that the carabiner is locked on my own harness. She grins at me as she approaches the base of the wall. “On belay?” she recites to me. I pull the rope through my ATC until it’s taut.
“Belay on.”
Cecille advances up the wall rapidly. I have to pull the rope quickly to eliminate the slack as she climbs higher and higher. She moves effortlessly, trusting each placement of a foot or hand without question, like she’s calculating each movement at least five steps before she actually reaches it. The only time she pauses is to reach into the chalk bag attached to her harness or to feed her rope to the anchors drilled in the wall. I continue matching her pace, rhythmically pulling and sliding my hands down the rope. I notice Ingrid watching the two of us with an impressed gaze. I can’t help but smile. I feel like I’m finally doing something right. On the rock, there are no inside jokes that I’m left out of. We may be outside, but for once, I am not an outsider. Maybe—just maybe—I finally found my people here.
I turn my attention back to Cecille, who is already well over fifty feet in the air. I squint to see that she is finally taking a moment to contemplate her next move. Her body is stretched almost horizontally, with her ankles locked around a protrusion in the wall. It’s a more advanced move than I would ever attempt, but I haven’t been climbing as long as her.
“You have to jump for the next hold!” Ingrid hollers from where she’s been observing. In acknowledgment to this, Cecille shifts her feet and bends her knees in a semi-horizontal squat, winding up to make the move. I tighten my grip on the rope, bracing myself to brake if she fails. Sure enough, her hands barely graze the next hold, and she begins to free fall. With all my strength, I pull my end of the rope down to my thigh to stop her fall. The rope becomes taut again, stopping her fall, and Cecille swings back and forth like a human pendulum due to the force of her leap.
Even from high above, I can hear her shriekish laughter as she swings. I smile up at her, admiring her unabashed joy in the face of a failed movement. It’s a contagious laugh that infects everyone watching from the ground, including myself.
That’s when I feel the cold sensation of dread that afflicts me from the back of my neck to the soles of my feet. Something is wrong. Terribly wrong. In that overwhelming second of unidentifiable fear, the strip of metal holding the rope in the ATC snaps. With nothing keeping her tethered to the ground, Cecille plummets down the face of the cliff.
All eyes track her descent, paralyzed and helpless. My mind goes blank, but my body springs into action. I black out for a moment—I must have blacked out, because instead of the next thing I remember being Cecille crashing towards the unforgiving ground, it’s her body once again suspended in the air, about twenty feet lower than her initial fall. She’s alright. A constricting pain around my body becomes apparent. When I look down, I understand how I stopped Cecille’s fall. I had wrapped the rope around my hips. Tight. It’s a dangerous belaying practice I saw once in a documentary on the history of climbing that must have imprinted on my subconscious.
There is a moment of eerie quietness as everyone takes a second to process what they just witnessed. Cecille is the first to cut through the silence.
“Get me down from here,” she shrieks. She frantically kicks and claws at the face of the wall until she finds a hold to clutch, letting out unfiltered hysterical sobs.
Everyone else springs into action. Ingrid is the first to reach me. She is mechanically efficient, and I truly understand at this moment why she is the apparent leader of this group. Wordlessly, she stands in front of me and clips her own ATC to the rope. I am vaguely aware of the rope loosening from my waist as Ingrid takes the tension, and loosely aware of the other climbers stampeding to the scene of the near-tragedy, but it feels like I am watching it all happen from somewhere beyond myself.
“You’re good,” Ingrid says to me without looking in my direction. This tears my perspective back into my body, and I disentangle myself from the rope’s tail. Cecille is efficiently lowered to the ground, wailing between uneven breaths. The moment she makes contact with the ground, she collapses into the dirt and pulls her knees to her chest.
“I was going to die,” she whispers. “I’m not ready to die.”
Ingrid runs to her friend and throws herself protectively over her shaking body. She says nothing, just holds her while she cries.
There is no discussion to take down camp—everyone silently and collectively agrees to cut the trip short. Cecille sits in her car, wrapped in a blanket and staring out the windshield into the trees. She stopped crying and was even speaking a bit to Ingrid on the walk back to camp. She’s alive, and that’s what matters.
Once Ingrid makes sure Cecille is stable, she rushes to me. She doesn’t throw herself around me like she did to her friend, and I am grateful for it. She asks if I am alright, and I respond yes. She assures me that the faulty gear was a freak accident and wasn’t my fault. I agree with her, and she offers a comforting pat on the shoulder before leaving to deconstruct her tent. I pack my things first and pile them into the trunk of Mick and Sarah’s car. My sides are severely bruised from the rope, but I’m able to breathe alright, even while loading the car. I take it upon myself to gather my tent mate’s belongings as well. On the way to load her bags, I am intercepted by Cecille.
“Hey, glad to see you up and about. How are you feeling? ”
Instead of answering, she wraps her arms around me in a tight hug. I freeze for a moment, then drop the bags and return her embrace.
“You saved me,” her voice breaks. “You’re a hero.”
Maybe it’s the vulnerability she shows me. Maybe it’s the truth of her words, or the adrenaline of the past hour; maybe it’s the way my fears and anxieties pale in the face of the near-death incident, or maybe it’s a combination of all those things and more. Whatever the cause, something shifts inside me, and I crumble in her arms, my body trembling as I dissolve into a puddle of tears.
How selfish, I chide myself, because I realize my outburst has nothing to do with Cecille’s close call and everything to do with my loneliness. The long months of isolation and descent into this self-imposed social anxiety has been a prison of my own making all along. I don’t know how to meet people organically anymore, or how to make friends, or even what kind of friends I want to make. I don’t know what kind of friend I am or want to be. Hell, I don’t even know who I am around people anymore. Maybe I don’t know who I am at all. But it’s something I want to find out. Cecille holds me tighter as she weeps over her survival. We stay there for a while, each clinging to the promise of a chance to live.
Julia Moore is a recent graduate of Miami University of Ohio, where she earned a degree in Creative Writing. She currently resides in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, where she works as a copywriter. This is Julia’s debut publication.