Poetry and climbing

(It seems to me that a blog is the ideal space for the exploration of a project-in-process; as such, it should be honest, somewhat rough and true-to-the-experience, as well as polished enough to be readable. This post aims for this balance in content and tone.)

I haven't blogged since late September, although I have been busy with both climbing and writing. Trying hard to avoid the types of injury that come from over zealousness, I have been steady at The Reach this Autumn; I've climbed two or three times a week with friends, mostly top-roping, only pushing myself in small increments when I've felt strong and safe enough to go a bit further, to, say, a friendly 6b. The recent exception to this is my recent foray into lead-climbing. Although I've co-owned a rope for a year now, I've been wary of taking her out (yes, the rope is a 'she', named 'Betty'); lead-climbing has always seemed more time consuming, riskier, more serious than I've felt as a climber.

It turns out that lead-climbing has re-energised my afternoons at The Reach, opening up new routes and walls, and challenging my recent thinking about confidence, and fear. There are (sometimes) long moments in lead-climbing when you are on the wall without being held tight, when you are between clips, and any slip would result in a fall of, say, a few feet, rather than a few inches. In the past, this would have prevented me from climbing above a 5/5+ while leading; however, lately, nudged myself toward the fear, for some unknown reason. I wonder if I'm getting closer to it, to examine it better as a writer? Or is it that I'm better prepared to cope with a small fall? 

The other day, in preparing for a local poetry reading, I re-acquainted myself with one of my older poems, from my first pamphlet, smithereens. 

Rules

Before your body is on the wall

you've got to say to the guy

in the other harness, the one

who has checked your figure-of-eight,

who has locked the carabiner tight,

who will feed you rope,

who will take in the slack,

who will lower you foot by foot

down the fake mountain side:

I'm climbing.

And when up high, in the overhang's

shadow, chalky hands shaking, unsure

of what strength's left in you, unable

to see the holds, knowing nothing

of their size or contour, uncertain

of everything except the weight

of your own body:

I'm falling.

The poem, published in 2010, addresses the level of uncertainty that accompanies climbing, and the associated thrill that this affords those who take up the sport. And it means more to me now that I'm lead-climbing, with further to fall. 

I hadn't planned to write poetry on this residency; I have been bashing away at a short story/novel for the past months, based on some of my own climbing experiences. (I should point out that I've never written a novel before; I am learning how as I go!) But finding this old poem has got me thinking about the immediacy of verse and how it can reflect the act of climbing in presentation and sound. I feel myself turning to the idea poetry again; not actually walking toward it yet, but considering it seriously.

I am also making plans to take some poet friends climbing in January. They will climb, for the first time, and write about the experience. Meanwhile, there are adult and youth climbers who are working away at their own first-time writing based on their time at The Reach. I am plotting to spend time in the cafe, too, unofficially, as a coffee drinker/jacket potato lunch customer, but also as a writer, in my remote office, watching the climbers, and seeing what comes to the page.

Is there a 'type' of person that climbs?

New to blogging, I’ve been thinking about how best to settle into this medium, to use it to enhance my work, to employ the platform as a tool for my writing. I certainly don’t want it to feel, or become, superfluous. One function that has seemed obvious from the beginning is its usefulness in showcasing climbers’ creative work over the next months. Another idea has emerged as I’ve been researching climbing literature: the blog-space as archive. In reading James Salter’s novel Solo Faces I found myself taking notes (a hold-over habit from graduate studies). Unlike a thesis, however, where the goal (complete with literature review) is usually determined in advance, this residency is largely open; a project without a predetermined design, or argument, apart from the rather broad guiding idea of ‘first climbs’. My notes are not, however, about finding a way into that concept, per se; they comprise phrases that adhere to my sense of a writer’s good observations, associations, interesting language.

And then I came upon this paragraph, told in the third person, but from the perspective of the story’s protagonist, Rand:

‘… his mind went back to the days when he had first climbed. He was fifteen. He remembered seeing another climber, older, in his twenties, rolled-up sleeves, worn shoes, an image of strength and experience. Now, with absolute clarity, he saw that climber again, his face, his gestures, even the very light. It seemed that in spite of all that had happened in between, the essence, an essence he had seen so vividly in that unknown face still somehow eluded him and he was struggling again, still, to capture it’.*

Salter’s words immediately tap into a fascinating aspect of the sport: the persona of the ‘typical’ climber. Solo Faces features personal stories and backgrounds of people who voluntarily put themselves in dangerous situations, and, as such, leads its reader to explore the possibility of a basis to the stereotype. What draws someone to climb, whether outdoors, with all of nature’s inherent variables, or indoors, with its relative, but obvious, ‘softer’ risks? Is there a sort of person that craves this type of adventure, this instability, the height, in order to feel complete, or happy? Does the act of climbing, in any environment, and its associated fears, bring out this facet of one’s personality? Can a person possibility recognise this nascent reaction in themselves at the time of their first climb?

This project won’t directly attempt to answer these questions; however, it would surprise me if these sorts of thoughts don’t creep into the creative writing produced this year. I suppose this post is an archive of these early theories, as well as a nod to Salter and his climbing characters, many of whom are deeply flawed, passionate: incurable, lovable thrill-seekers.

* Salter, James, ‘Solo Faces’, One Step in the Clouds: an omnibus of mountaineering novels and short stories, compiled by Audrey Salkeld and Rosie Smith (Sierra Club Books: San Francisco), 1990.

Climbing in Maine

Imagine a rainy day on a lake in Maine and the joy of finding Salt Pump Climbing in Portland, Maine (http://www.saltpumpclimbing.com) just a half-hour drive away. Salt Pump is a colourful, spacious place populated by friendly enthusiasts. It sits beside an unnamed pond, with huge windows overlooking the water and surrounding woods. Staff were welcoming and especially encouraging to the first-time climbers in our group. I visited with family and friends who were nervous about trying the sport, and I'm pleased to say that they are now hooked and searching for climbing gyms where they live in North Carolina and Connecticut. 

In keeping with the theme of 'first climbs' that I intend to explore at The Reach, I plan to ask my cohorts to write a little something about their experiences that day to get things started. Look for them here in the days to come; a little taste of things to come.

This is me on an 5.6-grade auto-belay route (comparison chart here:http://www.ukclimbing.com/logbook/comptable.html). It was so good to get back on the wall!

Upcoming residency at The Reach Climbing Wall

Giving thought to my upcoming residency in Woolwich at The Reach Climbing Wall (https://www.thereach.org.uk). Centre staff are wholly supportive, climbers I've spoken with are interested in participating, and, personally, I'm eager to use the time to explore prose, something I've only played around with until now. We have all settled on the theme of 'first climbs', to involve everyone: young students visiting the centre for the first time, experienced climbers and staff. 

My initial research seems to indicate some existing fictionalised writing on the subject of, or related to, climbing. One book I look forward to reading on the shores of Lake Sebago, Maine next week, is One Step in the Clouds: an omnibus of mountaineering novels and short stories (compiled by Audrey Salkeld and Rosie Smith, Diadem Books (London)/Sierra Club Books (San Francisco), 1990). The collection contains a bibliography of mountain fiction, and I'll hone in on stories that might focus on climbing, in particular; I wonder if there is much, or anything, set in the indoor rock gym?

In the name of research, I also plan to visit the Salt Pump Climbing Co. in Portland, Maine (http://www.saltpumpclimbing.com) while on vacation with my family. Will have to reacquaint myself with the American grading systems. The Reach, during the week, is populated by a handful of mature female climbers, mostly part-time workers, and the camaraderie is wonderful. I'm curious to see if there is a similar vibe in Maine.