Whipper

When Horie-San, a fifty five year old high school teacher from a nearby city, placed his last metal anchor into a crack on the climbing route, he was past the difficult section. The rest of the climbing, another twenty feet or so to the top, was relatively easy. In scenarios such as those, though the climbing gets easier, the mental game becomes the priority; the climber has important decisions to make. He can continue to place anchors as he advances up the rock, clipping his rope through them, but he will risk running out of valuable gear if the climbing gets harder above. The other option is to save the gear for when the climbing does get harder and risk a very big fall in the unlikely event that something goes wrong on the easier climbing.

Those kinds of mental gymnastics make climbing fun. It is like a chess game where the stakes are your body’s well being. If you make the wrong decision, and the route puts you in check, you could be seriously hurt. If you’re put in checkmate, you’re dead. But if you make the right decision, and you checkmate the route, for a brief period you understand what it is like to master your body and your mind. It’s a sensation that’s addictive.

Horie-San has been climbing for thirty years. He’s climbed Yosemite’s El Capitan, Peru’s 6,000 meter peaks, and routes in the Himalayas. He’s climbed so much that his body has transformed into a likeness of stone, hard and weathered, leaving only the densest, strongest flesh. It’s a body like a champion fighting dog. He would be scary and intimidating if he wasn’t exceptionally generous and kind. Well, actually, he is still very intimidating, despite his kindness. His eyes show that he has mastered body and mind more times that he can remember, and the lucidity of his experience is manifest in his every glance. His smile softens him though. It invites you in and makes you eager to ask him to share stories of all his adventures. He’s a good man, and knows what he’s doing on the rock.

But Horie-San, on that afternoon in March, learned that rocks hold secrets that even the best of climbers can’t anticipate. After passing the last anchor he placed, Horie-San climbed above it. The climbing was easy, save for a few final moves right at the top. Horie-San’s risk of not placing gear caused him to pause and consider. He could reverse his moves, place another anchor and turn a potential forty foot fall into a three foot one. Or he could go for it. It was only a few moves to the top after all, moves that were well under his limit of difficulty. It would provide a small rush, a slight reminder of the mental and physical prowess he had acquired from so many years climbing. He chose to go for it.

As I belayed from below, letting out more and more slack as Horie-San climbed, I assessed the scenario from my position. If something did go wrong and Horie-San did fall from that height, catching him would be nearly impossible. A belayer can only take in a foot or so of slack before he can lock the rope off through his belay device, catching the climber. By not placing more anchors, Horie-San was risking a fall that would cause him to hit the ground. I have belayed countless others who have risked the same kind of a fall and all of them always made it. Thirteen years of having seen that scenario end well, I wasn’t prepared when I realized Horie-San was falling.

Inches before Horie-San could have reached the top, he placed his foot on what looked like an excellent foothold that would allow him to stand up and finish the route. When he weighted the hold, however, it parted from the wall, propelling itself downward toward me. I had no time to realize that the foothold, about fifteen pounds and the size of a dinner plate, came crashing down a few feet away from my head. I was more concerned with Horie-San, who was also airborne.

There is one option to catch that kind of a fall, a technique I have never used before, nor practiced, but knew of. How I processed what I should do and acted in the tenth of a second I had, I don’t know. But before Horie-San could hit the ground I jumped backward, down a small hill, braking the rope through the belay device.

Jumping back only saved Horie-San a few feet, but it made the difference. He swung violently into a higher slope of soft dirt while I slamed against the rope that had gone taut against me.

A pause allowed us both to realize that he was alive. Then adrenaline released and we started trembling.

“Daijobu?” I asked. “Are you okay?”

He looked up at me, his eyes clearer than ever, and confirmed, “Hai. I’m okay.”

Sitting down onto the ground, he went to take off his shoes. His hands shook terribly. He had hit his foot against the rock on his way down but he still couldn’t feel the pain of it. As he untied his laces he started laughing.

“That was my first ground fall!” he said proudly.

I couldn’t believe it. He sounded excited.

I responded, “Yeah, that’s my first time belaying a ground fall.”

I looked down at my hand. It had started hurting and realized I had slight burns from the jarring rope.

“That was a big fall,” I added.

I checked his back for any signs of injury. Then, when he got his shoe off I looked at his foot. It seemed okay, a few scratches from the hit, but it hadn’t started swelling yet.

“We should get you out of here and to a doctor to make sure you’re alright, Horie-San,” I told him.

“Yes. That is a good idea,” he agreed. “We’ll go after I climb the route again.”

I thought I misheard, or that he had made a mistake with his English.

“What?” I asked.

“I want to climb it again,” he said, not as a possible idea but as an affirmation that he would do it.

Confused, I told him, “You don’t have to do that Horie-San. I can get the gear later.”

“No. I’ll do it now,” he responsed.

Despite my advice, he started putting his shoe back on. His foot had started swelling. He pulled the rope through the last anchor, and tied it back into his harness.

“You ready?” he asked me.

“Uh. Yeah. I guess so,” I said, shocked that he was ready to get back on so fast. “But really, Horie-San, if your foot hurts you should go get it checked out.”

“Yes, yes. After. Am I on belay?”

I locked my carabiner shut and gave the command, “Yeah. On belay.”

He limped to the start of the route and began climbing again. Before I knew it he was back at the same point he had fallen from. This time he put in an extra anchor and fired to the top. His foothold held, on he didn’t fall.

“I made it,” he shouted, not as a celebration but simply stating a fact—this time he made it, last time he didn’t make it.

Relieved, I shouted congratulations and lowered him down to the ground.

“It’s easy if the footholds don’t break,” he told me, taking his shoe off, controlling the wince that came from the pain.

“I’ll bet,” was all I could think of as a response.

We packed up our things and headed to the car. He wouldn’t let me carry any of his gear for him, even though at that point he was in a full limp.

When we arrived at the car, he told me, “That was fun. We should climb together again sometime.”

“Right. Fun,” I repeated. “I’ll climb with you whenever you want Horie-San.”

“Great”, he said with a smile. “Maybe not next weekend because I think my foot might be broken. But maybe the weekend after that.”

With that, he got in his car and drove away, promising me he would stop off at the hospital before he returned to his house.