When you’re dangling from a rope above the earth, pretty much halfway between where you started and where you want to be and surrounded only by open space, there’s not much you can do except sit.
That’s what you do when you rappel down a mountain. You sit back, letting gravity and friction do most of the work as you ease yourself down to the ground.
At least, that’s what you’re supposed to do. On this day last summer, the first time I’d ever rappeled while climbing, I stopped suddenly. Still sitting, but no longer making progress towards the ground.
The tail end of my braided hair, I had noticed a few seconds ago, had somehow wormed its way into the belay device and wedged itself next to the rope.
My first thought was to feel embarrassed. A few expletives may also have crossed my mind. I looked out over the mountain, down towards the hazy valley and across to where another part of our group was climbing. Taking a breath to call up to our instructor and let her know the unfortunate reason why I’d stopped, I thought, How did I get here?
—
Last summer, I had a magical job where I led groups of young’uns gallivanting through the outdoor spaces of Montana and Wyoming. Our culminating experience involved two days of climbing school at the Jackson Hole ski resort.
There, we learned the ins and outs of hip-belaying, down-climbing, how to maximize your oxygen intake at altitude and tie into a rope. On day two, disaster struck.
Then I finally looked down and saw that my braid was stuck.
Was it embarrassing to get my hair stuck in front of the kids I was supposed to be leading? Yes, yes it was. Not exactly an ideal situation to be in as a role model.
But then again, maybe it was a more valuable experience than I thought. Looking back, I realize that getting stuck wasn’t exactly traumatizing. It’s not like I never want to rappel again (though I will be tying my hair way, way back in the future).
I did, however, learn something. (Besides how uncomfortable it is to sit in a harness for 20 minutes as your guide transfers your load so she can pull you up enough to release your hair, then re-lower you. I’m pretty sure there are permanent imprints on my butt from this experience.)
The moment my feet finally touched the ground again, I sighed with relief and called up to our guide that I’d made it. Then I shook out my legs, turned around, and spotted a pika.
I smiled at the tiny, fuzzy thing, which stared at me for a second before emitting a small squeak and scurrying into the rocks. Here I was, still climbing with world-class mountain guides and surrounded by breathtaking views of Jackson Hole.
It doesn’t matter if you’re the best climber or not. It doesn’t matter if you’re the fastest hiker or strongest paddler or smoothest skier. I’ve never been any of those things.
It doesn’t matter if you mess up sometimes, so long as you take all measures necessary to prevent life-threatening danger, of course.
Maybe the best thing I could have taught those kids is that you’re always going to make mistakes, even if you’re a leader. What matters is that you keep learning and improving to minimize mistakes. That’s what’s going to make your outdoor experiences better – not being the best.
Just try not to get your hair stuck in anything. That’s a lesson I’ve already learned for you.