Blog post #9 - Reflection: Overcoming challenges, and climbing a rock tower in Canada

August 3, 2023

The past half a year has been about overcoming challenges. Over and over again. I have felt exhausted and burned out. Many times. I have felt the afraid and insecure feeling that comes from the despair and longing. I have wanted to be out of that despair and longing, and have had to suspend my faith that I will make it out over and over again.

I am currently on a major “end of summer roadtrip to heal my broken heart.” One of my favorite things about being a teacher is that, during the summer, I am able to wander.

A couple of weeks ago, I traveled north, and then traveled with family further north into Canada. The trip has been significantly healing for me. I plan to write more later about why I feel traveling, and more specifically new experiences, are healing.

I and my two brothers just went on a rock-climbing expedition to a rock tower in the Canadian countryside. I am writing about this experience because I am extremely proud of myself for putting myself out there and pushing myself, and because of the life lessons and encouragement I feel this experience represents. Climbing the face of the rock tower was quite possibly the most physically challenging experience I have ever gone through. Part of the reason why it was so physically challenging is that it was also extraordinarily mentally challenging, although I cannot say that it is the most mentally challenging experience I have ever gone through.

The most mentally and emotionally challenging experience I have ever gone through has been the aftermath of falling in love: living through the heartbreak of giving up the man I was in love with, then going through the journey of finding myself again and healing my broken heart. I have not finished that journey. But I have come so far.

Climbing this rock tower in a valley in Ontario felt like a sped-up version of the struggle and triumph of the last six and a half months. Except that I haven’t quite reached the “triumph” part of my current life struggles yet.

I feel that summit is in sight, though.

Months ago, when I and my siblings decided to take this trip, I researched the area where we were going and happened upon information about this little-known rock tower. There is a local climbing/ adventure company that hosts guided rock climbing excursions to it.

The rock tower was supposed to be beginner friendly. It was about five stories high. The excursion wasn’t cheap, but as I stared at the photos of various people standing on top of the slim pillar of stones, I felt an urge inside of me that I had to climb that tower.

I made the reservations for myself and my brothers. Early in the summer, my brothers also started climbing at a local rock climbing gym, and I joined them. Finding new interests and having new experiences, along with rekindling and investing time in old hobbies or passions as a form of finding myself again, have both been really important in my healing process. At the rock climbing gym, my brothers and their slightly eccentric group of adolescent/ young adult friends took me – a broken hearted woman in her late twenties – under their wing. I found myself being unexpectedly supported by people much younger than I was (both figuratively and literally) as I climbed the easiest routes in the gym.

Today, I and my brothers drove through the early morning to the spot where we would meet our guide – the side of a country road. We then followed our guide and the other vehicle in our caravan down a narrow, unpaved and unmaintained road composed of large rocks and even larger potholes. I have not been on that treacherous of a road since I drove in the mountains in Puerto Rico two years ago, and was glad my little brother (who was driving) could have that experience this time instead of me.

We then hiked forty-five minutes through a narrow trail in the woods – over fallen logs and down steep inclines. One of the two guides taught us about the local plants that are edible, and we stopped to eat wild blueberries, among others.

The trail opened up to a vast valley, with the rock tower standing part-way down the incline of the side of the valley we were on. The valley overlooked the tops of the narrow pines, and there was a little lake to the left, and far in front of me I could see a white-grey sliver of Lake Superior shimmering in the distance.

We descended to the tower. As the others climbed, I contemplated the task ahead of me. The guides had said that the climb would be about a 5.6 or 5.7 difficulty rating at the gym.

Despite climbing for weeks, I think I have only ever completed 5.5 routes – the easiest – at the gym. I had also never climbed outside/ on a real rock face before.

I had tried to enjoy the experience of climbing at the gym, instead of pushing myself and my broken heart too much. Showing up at the gym had felt like about all I could handle, and I had had the tendency to give up on a course halfway up the wall /as soon as I felt exposed, too out of my element due to the height, or too tired. Now, if I wanted to reach the top of that tower, I would have to push myself.

After all the others had gone, it was my turn to climb. I grabbed onto the cracks and miniature ledges in the rock face in front of me, and started up.

As soon as I started the climb, I was hit by the seeming impossibility of the task. Climbing the side of the tower was extraordinarily difficult: There were not enough footholds. It did not seem like there was any possibility I was strong enough to hoist myself upward. I felt exposed, and like I would fall off the side of the tower over and over again. There didn’t seem to be any resting spots. I couldn’t get up the sheer rock face.

“Take.” I said. My guide tightened the rope, and I was lowered down to the ledge below me that was basically the starting point.

“How do you do this? I don’t think I can do this.”

“The first part is the most difficult. Once you get further up, there are more ledges you can rest on. You’ve got this.” The words of my guide brought back the restless hope. I just had to get past the most difficult part.

I tried again. Again, it was almost excruciatingly difficult, both mentally and physically. I clung to the cracks and crannies of the tower, and put my foot in a big crack along the wall, as well as on small ledges. Again, I was hit with the seeming reality that I would not be able to do this. That I simply did not have the physical or mental strength.

Give up or keep going? Give up or keep going? Ran as an invisible soundtrack in the back of my mind. Can I do this? I’m going to keep trying. Is it possible to keep going without giving up? This seems impossible.

“Make sure to breathe. It’s easy to forget to do that, but it’s very important. It helps you stay mentally focused and helps you keep moving your muscles.” Came one of the guides’ voice from below me.

I cannot express the feeling of being pushed to my absolute limits. With each muscle contraction, I reached both physically and mentally into the uncertainty, the challenge, the unknown, and the stress, anxiety, hope and determination that comes from reaching further out of my comfort zone. Every second of not giving up felt like a giant risk and a leap of faith. And every second, I continued to wonder whether I could go another second without giving up. But second after second and exhausting movement after exhausting movement, I did not give up.

I cannot describe the feeling of exposure, vulnerability, and exhaustion. And the mixture of doubt, faith, and determination.

Honestly, the process felt a lot like the process of reaching for mental and emotional health and stability in the middle of heartbreak and emotional chaos. And trusting that my rope and my harness would catch me if/ when I needed them felt like trusting the healing process.

“I don’t think I can get any higher.”

“Look at your feet more than your hands. Look for the little ledges. See that spot on the left?”

“I can’t get my foot that high.”

“You got it.” My guide’s comments were encouragement – like drops of water in a desert, that promised a source nearby.

Knowing that things would get easier gave me the strength and determination to somehow, unbelievably, make it up that first part of the tower.

I made it to the first resting spot – a ledge I could sit on/ lean against.

“I’m already exhausted.”

“That’s alright.” The calm words of my guide floated in a reassuring way to me.

“I like, already feel the lactic acid building up.”

I was sweating. Shaking. Breathing heavily. Missing my water bottle.

“You probably do. Shake your hands out.”

I shook out my arms.

“Take a minute to breathe deeply and calm yourself. Breathing out deeply also expels the lactic acid.”

I stood on the side of that tower, leaning against the rockface, steadying my nerves and breathing, in and out, in and out. I was utterly exhausted already, and way out of my element. I willed myself to use the meditation tactics I have been working on daily for the last several weeks, to calm down and bring myself out of my head (from worrying about the dizzying, vast, exposed amount of open air behind me) and into the present moment.

I felt the cool breeze on my skin. Felt the rock. Heard the sounds of the valley below me. I both took in how high I was and let go of it at the same time.

“Be careful of getting ledge syndrome, where you get so comfortable where you’re at that you don’t feel you can move on.”

Ten more breaths. I counted each deep breath in and out.

“Climbing.”

“Ready to climb.” Came the answer from below.

There were several resting places along the route, where I could stand or even sit on small ledges. At one point, I was wedged into a giant split in the tower.

At those resting places, I breathed. I recomposed my physical and mental strength. And then I kept climbing.

I asked my guide how far I was.

“You’re almost halfway there.”

Halfway there? I was already so incredibly tired.

I kept climbing. One movement, one decision at a time to reach and stretch and exert myself, to clutch with my fingers and pull with my arms as I clung to the rock face, and to straighten my shaking legs. And to breathe. In and out. In and out.

Then I reached a point, high in the tower journey, that seemed just as difficult and precarious as the first section of the tower. I stood on a small, vulnerable-feeling ledge, looking up at this next stretch of impossible rock face in disbelief. There were not neat ledges to put my feet on. There were not convenient resting spots for a good while. And now, I was way more exhausted than before, and at a way higher height than before.

I attempted to find footholds and handholds, without luck.

“I can’t figure out how to do this. Oh my gosh.”

“You’ve gotten to the second part that I mentioned was difficult.”

Second part that’s difficult? Somehow I had missed him mentioning this.

I tried. I remember at one point reaching for a rock crack, scrambling to cling on with my feet and hands, and falling off the rock wall. I cursed, feeling my heart flip. The flexible rope stretched and caught me. I was beyond exhausted.

“Plan out every place that could be a foothold, and think about using them.”

I was facing the impossible. Again. When every fiber in me was ready to be done already.

Just as the knowledge that there would be a resting place soon had gotten me through the first part of the climb, the thought that I was almost to the top, and that after this last difficult stretch it would be easier, gave me the strength and determination to proceed.

I made it up that last rock face, miraculously, by reaching and trying, then having to yell “take”. The guide belaying me would tighten the rope, and I would let go, sitting back in my harness, with my shaking legs against the rock face for a few seconds, then reach and grab and try to scramble up the rock wall just a little further again.

It is a very vulnerable feeling, when you are exhausted and feel pushed beyond your limits, to both hold on and let go at the same time. I had to hold to the rock face, while also having the courage to let go and reach for a new and even higher crevice to hold onto at the same time.

That is how letting go of James has felt. I have been just trying to hold on – to cling to my support system, my values and my mental and emotional health – while letting go and taking the next frightening step at the same time.

I made it to the final section of the rock pillar. The top. I sat on the semi-final piece of rock – a small ledge next to the final, highest miniature pillar. The summit.

I was determined to stand on the summit. It was a large stone that was flat on the top. Although it was in a secure position on top of the rock underneath it, it also wobbled slightly.

Also, my rope was secured maybe two, or two and a half feet below that final summit.If I wanted to stand on the capstone, my rope, which was tied to the harness on my waist, would be about five feet from the place where the rope was anchored. That meant that, if I tried to stand on that final rock and fell, I could fall around ten feet and smack myself against the tower. While climbing the rock tower had been exhausting and terrifying, standing on the summit had a real element of danger to it.

For at least twenty minutes, I sat on the final few stones at the top of the tower, trying to figure out how to stand, where I could step on that final stone without it wobbling, and to gather my courage. I breathed. I took in the incredible view of the valley below me.

I know I have above average balance, and I had watched my brothers stand on the final stone without a problem. If it were six inches above the ground instead of over sixty feet, standing up on the stone would have been extremely easy. But, when you are at the top of a rock tower, if you cannot control your mind, the fear from the height seems like it would eat away at your sense of balance.

I did not want to not take the final step of my terrifying journey, after all I had done already. But standing up on that final stone was one of the scariest things I have ever faced.

Deep breath in. Hold. Deep breath out. Hold. I counted my breaths and the seconds I took for each one as I breathed in, then out. It’s like my senses were honed in, as I sat on the semi-final rock, leaning over with my hands touching the final rock for a sense of balance and stability. I contemplated the cool stone beneath my fingers. Deep breath in. Hold. Deep breath out. Hold. Then I would look out and around me at that great expanse of nothingness. In all 360 degrees around me, there was open air and open space, that finally gave way to the views in the distance. There was that little piece of Lake Superior, shining like a brilliant white flash of light as it reflected the sun, way in front of me.

Finally, I placed one blue and black Tenaya climbing shoe on the final stone, then the other, and squatted again, and this time finally stood for just a few seconds. I cannot put into words the feeling of complete exposure that standing on the top of that pillar, with nothing to hold onto, gave me. I briefly raised a fist in the air. I was terrified, but I had done it. I was standing on the top of the tower. After a journey of probably over an hour since I started climbing, I had done what I had set out to do.

I quickly got out of the standing position and into a more stable place on the rock tower, and gave out a few hollers of triumph.

I made it through the descent, then dragged my aching body through the hike back – I had given every ounce of energy I had to the climb.

There are several things I feel are important:

To make it through the challenges that seem impossible, it is vital to have a support team. If I had not had my guide telling me where to put my feet, assuring me I could make it, and holding the rope to catch me when I fell, I could not have made it up that tower.
Breathing deeply was important. It kept me mentally centered in the moment enough for my mind and body to cope with what was happening in present time and focus on the next step I needed to take, without freaking out to the exent that I gave up.
Also, hope is extraordinarily important. Sometimes I feel that, when we are in the deep end emotionally and it feels like we will never make it to the other side, what we need most is someone to say “You are going to make it. It’s alright to be exhausted. I believe you can do this.”
I also had to realize that it is okay to go at my own pace. It was okay to be the slowest hiker, and the slowest climber in the group. It was okay to take over an hour of everyone’s time. I still did it, I still climbed the tower, and that is what is important.

Some people might wonder what the point is of putting myself through such a challenging, uncomfortable and arguably dangerous (for example, standing on the final stone) experience. For me, that tower represented the metaphorical pillar of challenges I face, that seem insurmountable. And what I learned through this experience is that my limits are much further than I thought they were. I am capable of doing things I would not have thought possible. I am stronger – both physically and mentally – than I thought.

I keep seeing this in my life as well. I believe this for my life, even though I have not finished climbing the tower that is my most prominent and current life problems.

I think that we are all stronger than we believe, and more capable than we know. I think that when we go through hell, we have the opportunity to see how strong and determined we are, although I would not wish that opportunity on anyone. I think a key factor in our eventual victory – our moment of standing victoriously, fist in the air, over all the crap life hands us – is continuing to make the choice to not give up.

I wish the best for you as you climb your rock towers. Feel free to share a moment when you have felt a sense of victory, or a struggle you are currently facing.