Partly Cloudy with a Chance of Lizards

The cliffs of southern Europe are home to thousands of lizards: brown lizards with green backs, green lizards with iridescent blue backs, even a blue lizard that is only found on the most distant of the three monoliths off the shore of Capri Island. They are incredible creatures: able to jump across chasms many times their own length, and to run with ease up and down rock faces that we only dream of ascending. They are cautious but curious, often observing you for long periods while you belay, little tongue flicking out periodically to see how badly you smell. 

As time goes on, I struggle more and more with my hands becoming cold and numb on cool rock-climbing days. Whether this is due to the curse of getting older, or to damage caused by freezing my fingers too many times while ice climbing, it can make all the difference between joy and frustration. Unfeeling hands cause me to over-grip, turning my forearms into useless bricks. I climb more fearfully and without fluidity because I lose trust in my hands. 

What I have realized is that the temperature at which lizards crawl out of their hiding places is my happy climbing temperature. If the lizards are out, my hands will be warm, and it’s going to be a good day of climbing. 

Recently, there was a cold snap here, with lows dipping down to 3 C and snow dusting the tops of nearby mountains. However, on a day we’d planned to climb, the forecast was for mostly clear skies: it would be a cool day, but sunny. After some research into which cliffs might be both sunny and sheltered from the wind, we picked the best option and decided to try our luck. 

As we shouldered our packs and started toward the cliff, I had my doubts. The hike through the forest was cold and windy, the ground even showing signs of frost. Though it was an uphill approach with moderately heavy packs, neither of us were inclined to remove our light down jackets. There wasn’t a lizard in sight.

However, it wouldn’t be the first time we’d endured a chilly approach to be rewarded by a nice day of climbing at a sunny crag, so I distracted myself by observing the beautiful forest we were walking through. Little waterfalls splashed down sculpted rock; pretty, but thorny, vines tumbled artfully over ancient stone walls. There is a little pond at the base of the cliff, formed by a low, curved wall of stone positioned to collect water dripping from tufas. When we reached it, I stopped and peered hopefully inside. We’d seen hundreds of little black tadpoles swimming in this pond two days before. Today, they were all at the bottom, alive but absolutely still. Some of them even appeared to be huddled together for warmth. As we bent over the pond, an icicle whizzed past our heads and landed in the pond with a plop.

So began one of those days that are high on suffering and low on joy, where I end up wondering why I climb. The first pitch was lovely but my hands were already numb by the time I was a third of the way up. The capricious wind seemed to pick up every time we were about to start climbing, an icy blast that cancelled out any warmth from the sun. The next climb, which was still supposed to be a “warm up”, was a strange route up a large fin of rock that was tricky to navigate. Two footholds broke off, adding to the insecurity that I already felt from numb hands. The climb was also more difficult than stated by one or two letter grades. In a fit of pique, I uncharitably speculated on the size of the genitals of whomever graded the climb. Even Ulysse took two tries to climb it cleanly. I improved very little on the second go, and by the time I got down, pain and frustration had shut down my higher cognitive functions. I wanted to pitch my climbing shoes off the edge of the cliff and never touch a frigid rock face again.

By mid-afternoon, what should have been the warmest part of the day, the wind was still blowing and the lizards were still hiding, intelligent creatures that they are. I’ve little doubt that Ulysse would have toughed it out, but he took pity on me and we packed up to head home. Afterwards, I realized that probably made me feel even worse, guilty over wimping out. As we hiked out, I peered into the tadpole pond again. They hadn’t budged.

On the way home, I thought a lot about my relationship with climbing. For many years, I felt like I was always reaching a new high point on each successive winter trip, climbing harder grades with more mental calm and better technique. When we returned from Greece in the spring of 2020, I felt strong, like I was really hitting my stride in climbing—I had just climbed my hardest grade yet. Then began a tailspin of injuries: a wrist issue, a meniscal tear in my right knee, a finger pulley injury, and finally a strange, persistent pain in my collarbone, combined with decreased mobility in my right shoulder. Was I just getting too old for this punishing sport? Had climbing become too much pain for too little joy? Should I break up with climbing? (I know what my mother would say.)

I don’t know the answer to that yet, but I do know that one should never make life-altering decisions while in a state of high emotion, be it euphoria or despair. We decided to take a few days off during the cooler weather to be proper tourists, to explore Sorrento, see Pompeii, and to wander around a few towns along the famous Amalfi Coast. Though we found these areas fascinating and beautiful, it turned out that a few days of being around crowds of tourists made us want to run back to the hills.

The next time we headed out to climb, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the morning air already held the promise of warmth. Ulysse queued up “We No Speak Americano” by Yolanda Be Cool, the perfect soundtrack to the “there are no rules, only suggestions” style of driving here, and we bopped along as we drove to Positano. The hike was completely different from the previous time: the forest had come alive with birds, butterflies, and even a pair of martens who first galloped away, then turned back to stare at us. And so many lizards! While climbing, Ulysse startled a tiny lizard who was as long as a toothpick and not much wider. In a mistaken effort to run for cover, it jumped on the top of Ulysse’s head and ran a few steps, parkour-style, before jumping back onto the cliff face. Ulysse’s shaved noggin probably looked like the top of a tufa to the little critter. Imagine its surprise when the tufa moved! 

In the end, we both had a great day—a fantastic, memorable day—perhaps made that way, in part, by its contrast with the rather miserable experience on our last outing. I guess it is human nature to need dark in order to appreciate light. 

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