The story behind the picture

After several days of cloudy, rainy skies, the sun appeared in all of its splendour yesterday. As we drove through town on our way to the climbing crag, it seemed that the townsfolk were as happy about the change as we were. People were walking about, pushing baby carriages, standing in groups on street corners laughing and gesticulating. An old dog sighed and squinted into the sun. Wisps of steam rose from damp asphalt and every colour seemed more vibrant…especially the greens. 

A rough dirt road with rocks as large as bread loafs comprises the last part of the drive to the Quirra climbs. Many large puddles (small lakes?) had formed on that road, but somehow our tiny rental car managed to ford them. The walk up to the cliff was filled with the scent of wet earth, green plants, and new blossoms; birds called to each other with renewed exuberance. It felt like spring had arrived in Sardinia and living things were all the happier for it.

We arrived at the base of the cliff and I surveyed my options. Gun-shy after the four-day bout of muscle stiffness I’d endured last week, having ramped up the climbing grades too quickly, I decided to take things down a notch. However, I still struggled. Maybe I wasn’t yet fully recovered, maybe my fingertips were still too tender from the last session on the highly textured rock, or maybe it was a full moon. Who knows? Somehow, a climb that didn’t seem very difficult a week ago now felt hard. I fought against the creeping despair that I’d never get better at this ridiculous sport. Meanwhile, Ulysse started working on a harder climb than the one that trashed us last time, and made steady progress. I then fought with my climbing FOMO.

The setting was perfect: the ideal balance of sun and wind to climb shirtless (or in a sport top in my case), and we were alone at the crag. Between climbs, while belaying, I would listen to the chorus of sheep bells in the distance, watch a tiny lizard skitter along the rock face, feel the warm sun on my back. My optimism would be rejuvenated, and I would look forward to another chance to climb. But then my turn would come, and I’d struggle all over again.

On my last climb, as the sun sank lower and the light began to take on a golden hue, Ulysse wanted to try taking a few pictures with his newly acquired drone. But two bolts off the ground, I asked for a take, my eyes welling with tears from the pain in my fingertips. They felt like someone had just beaten them thoroughly with a meat tenderizer. Ulysse fell into the same trap as so many other caring men have while trying to be supportive of a frustrated mate: he spoke. He called up that I didn’t have to do the climb, it was okay to bail. I clenched my teeth. My inner critic started to natter gleefully that I was too weak, that I wasn’t tough enough, that I should just give up. 

“You wouldn’t bail,” I said savagely, more to myself than to Ulysse.

As I hung there, deflated, I thought about how ridiculous the whole thing was: I’d spent a lot of money to fly halfway around the world to hang like a rag doll on a cliff that had copious amounts of sheep shit at the base, and suffer. The man at the town market had repeated several times, “Sei pazza!” when he heard I was a rock climber. “You’re crazy!” At that moment, I couldn’t have agreed with him more. Why the hell do I engage in this punishing activity that often makes my body sore and my mind race with questions of self-worth and purpose? This is done by choice: no one is forcing me…no one is even paying me. But then, there are those other times when my body is more attuned to climbing. I flow well over the rock, and I think only about the present moment: an effortless, moving meditation. Nothing else in my life pushes me like climbing does physically, and even more, mentally. Though my climbing doesn’t matter to anyone else, somehow it has come to matter deeply to me.

I took a deep breath and blinked away the tears. I knew that if I could just get a few metres higher, the rock would become a lot smoother and less painful to hold onto. Fuelled by some combination of pride, anger, and determination, I ploughed on, allowing myself a yell with each painful move. I reached the smoother rock with relief. Ulysse fired up the drone and took some shots as I climbed the last few metres to the anchor, in the golden light, with the warm sun on my back.

Exhausted for the day, we sat at the base of the cliff watching the sun set behind the low mountains to the west. The valley was already in shadow, blue and misty, but the cliff behind us was lit in a brilliant orange glow. In the end, there was no place we’d rather be than at that cliff, with its sharp rock and sheep shit. What strange twists life takes. 

Later, after eating supper at the only restaurant in Tertenia and perhaps having a little too much wine, we pinched four lemons from two different front yards; each tree must have had a hundred lemons so we didn’t feel too guilty. We giggled with the abandon of naughty children and felt very much alive.