The Edge of Time

My creative writing final. Not perfect, but I learned a lot while writing it, and a classmate said I'd improved 10-fold. This is a throwback to last summer's camp experience.

I spend most of the morning in the shadow of the cliff, my eyes drawn again and again to the imposing wall as if by some unseen force. It stares back, daring me to a rematch.

Two weeks earlier, I stood in the same shadow, with anticipation instead of wariness. The climbing route is aptly named: The Edge of Time. The edge is what strikes you, no matter how long you spend trying to take it in. A great slab of rock, wedged upright into the ground, as if a huge headstone was cracked in half and this piece was planted as a memorial.

That edge is where I got stuck that first time, forty feet up, my right leg shaking like it was tapping out a telegraph, despite my best efforts to control it. That edge is where I dangled, head heavy under the weight of my white helmet, telling my belayer to lower me down, mortified that the teenage girls had outdone me.

Now I am back, unsure if the possibility of vindication is worth the risk of another defeat. Being the only female on this climbing trip raises the stakes even higher; I can’t be “the girly girl”. I tighten my harness straps around my thighs and tug up hard on the belt loop to make sure it’s snug. My sweaty hands slide over the knots, double checking everything one last time. I turn back to my friend, holding the other end of the rope.

“Belay on?”

“On belay,” he says, indicating he is ready for me to begin.

At least one of us is.

I step closer and lay my palms on the cold granite. Inhale. Exhale. The rope pulls taut into my chest as the belayer takes in slack, forcing me to lean around it. I close my fingers around the first holds and lunge upwards. I settle into a rhythm of reaching, pulling, standing, reminding myself to use my legs, not my arms.

I surge past the point of defeat from two weeks ago, but my victory is short-lived. A few feet higher, I pull myself to standing and reach up yet again. My hands sweep left and right. Nothing. The ledge above me is barely enough to hook my fingernails on. I use my foot to grope for a step to my right, but it is out of reach. I am stuck. Again.

Voices call out from below with encouragement and suggestions, but all I hear is the one in my head telling me I’ve failed. How many more half-hearted attempts before I can throw in the towel? One more?

Resigned, I push up on my toes, pinched in the tight rubber shoes. I lean into the wall and strain upwards, trying to use my momentum to drive me past that ledge. Suddenly I’m 18 inches higher on the wall, not sure how I got here. I hear cheering from below and my fatigue and doubt evaporate. Surging ahead, my adrenaline crashes the same time my fingertips touch the metal anchor at the top. I collapse into the harness, letting it enfold me while I am lowered to the ground.