Rock Climbing

I came to rock climbing too late in life,
Or maybe I just never learned to love the rock.

But, as newlyweds, we lived in Boulder,
A climbing Mecca, and Phil owned all the gear.
We climbed the Third Flatiron, eight pitches,
Thirteen hundred feet.
Me in my Christmas plaid Keds.

It took a long time. First Phil, who set the carabiners,
Then me, then a friend.
Eight times.

I am not a patient person.
Sitting on a rock waiting for my turn is not my ideal day.
Had I known that I was exchanging ions with the earth,
Also known as grounding, perhaps I would have
Been more appreciative. (But probably not.)

Another time, we tried a technical climb,
A 5.7 rating, and I did it. Good for me.
Like running a sub-six minute mile,
I can say that I did it, and accept the kudos,
But I have no need to do it again.
Once I’ve achieved that level of awesomeness,
Why go further?

As an interesting side note: my beloved Greek professor,
Dr. Hunt, who I totally had a crush on even though I was married,
Mentioned casually one day that he had taken an hour
And climbed the Third Flatiron.
“Without ropes?” I asked, in horror.
“Of course. It’s not hard!” he replied.
And I agree. A 5.4 is nothing to write home about.
And yet.
One missed step, and the 1300 foot fall brings death.
Who nonchalantly chooses such a hobby?

I came to rock climbing too late in life.
Which is, perhaps, why I’m still alive.
I don’t have the patience to set the ropes.