17 minute read
THE PATIENCE AND KINDNESS OF TEACHERS
by Sohaib Haider
Above: Sohaib Haider on Mt. Hood, Old Chute, June 16, 2021. All photos: Sohaib Haider.
My mouth was dry, my legs were shaking, I was unable to move, frozen. I felt hotter and sweatier than the mid-April sun warranted. I had no clear thoughts. I knew only that I didn’t want to be right here, right now. Every human being has felt it, but I think climbers experience this overwhelming physical and mental sensation with more intimacy and frequency than others. I’m talking about fear.
This was my first real encounter with fear in climbing. I wasn’t about to pull the roof above the slippery crack on Spiderman (a moderate trad route at Smith Rock), nor was I six feet above the bolt on a run-out sport route (Manifest Destiny, Red Rocks). I was not second-guessing the sticks of my ice tools before placing an ice screw in the headwall of North Ridge of Koma Kulshan/
Mt. Baker, nor was I about to jump over a three-foot-wide crevasse that flared into a deep blue abyss on Emmons Glacier on Tahoma/Mt. Rainier. I was simply trying to rappel, from a big ledge, on a low fifth-class route at Horsethief Butte. It was my first ever rappel in the wild, during the rock skills field trip of Basic Climbing Education Program (BCEP) 2021, and I remember it as if it were ten minutes ago.
My description of the scene sounds like I was alone and helpless, but that’s just a trick fear plays on us. I was, in fact, with the best instructor I could’ve had on that particular day. His name was David Carrier. I remember him sitting comfortably at the ledge, tethered to the anchor, though I had almost forgotten that he was there. I don’t know how long I stayed stuck, fidgeting with my belay device with one hand, holding the two strands of the rope with the other, doing a sit-stand motion, half-step back, one step forward. Was it three minutes, five minutes, or more, I don’t know. It seemed like an eternity.
And then I heard David’s voice, soft and clear, saying something along the lines of: What’s going on, Sohaib? Realizing that I was not alone, I relaxed a bit, and replied, “I feel unsafe on this ledge.” David responded without missing a beat, and years later I remember his exact words, because they changed my life. In a calm and almost comforting voice, David asked, “Is it your body or is it your mind that is unsafe on this ledge?” Everything within me became still, quiet. In hindsight, I know now that this stillness is the precursor and harbinger of an insight, the light bulb moment. A light in the darkness of fear. The calm in David’s voice convinced me of its truth. David had challenged me to reason through my fear. I looked at the anchor and the rope threaded through the rings. I had done my BARK test (the mnemonic for Buckle, Anchor, Rappel setup, and Knots, taught in BCEP).
I tugged hard on my third hand again, the rope couldn’t slip even an inch in the wraps of my autoblock. I started to gain clarity with all the thinking and all the follow-up tests. It dawned on me that I was actually physically safe on the ledge and on the rappel system. I was just afraid to commit to the move, the rappel.
After a deep breath I took a step back, looked over my shoulder down the 25 feet of low 5th class terrain, and I could see the rope on the ground. I looked up, and took another step back—I was leaning back at the ledge. One more step, and I was almost perpendicular to the ledge. One more step, and my feet were against the vertical wall and my back towards the ground. I could see the rope go smoothly through my belay device while I fed more rope through my third hand. Holy smokes, I was rappelling. David must’ve said something encouraging at this point, but I don’t remember—I didn’t hear any sound in the world. All I could see was my feet on the rock wall and the rope strands feeding through my belay device. Then I started to breathe and move with more comfort. By the time I reached the ground, I was actually enjoying the motion. I had successfully executed the first rappel of my life in the outdoors, and in the process David had given me a phenomenal framework to deal with challenges of climbing, and of life itself: is it my mind or is it my body that is unsafe in any situation.
All of my close friends and several of my BCEP students have heard this story, some multiple times. I only saw David once after this field trip. It was again during the BCEP 2021 Snow Skills session at the White River Sno Park. As we practiced selfarrest and steep snow travel techniques, David kept looking at Wy’east/Mt. Hood on that bright sunny day and explained the mountain features like Hogsback and Illumination Saddle to me. He had a love for the mountain. I could hear it in his voice and see it in his eyes. I almost envied this love. David told me that he could summit the mountain in less than 4 hours, and I was envious of that too. In 2021, I was dying to summit Wy’east/Mt. Hood, in fact summiting it was the only reason I had signed up for BCEP. But the summit now seemed like a daunting task. BCEP had humbled me, and I was afraid of the mountain and the challenge it came with. I kept hearing stories of climbers that have to turn around due to conditions and fitness challenges.
I never saw David again. He passed away in August 2022 in a climbing accident. However, I have used David’s line and approach of being patient with climbing students quite a few times, and I believe David’s knowledge and kindness lives on.
I did get on that Wy’east/Mt. Hood climb only a few days after my BCEP graduation, on June 16, 2021. My own BCEP team’s Hood climb didn’t go due to weather and I was desperate to get on another. I was thinking of paying guides, but it was June and I thought it might already be too late. Then Tim Scott saw a weather window and put up a Thursday morning climb. I applied, and he accepted me. I guess the universe was conspiring in my favor.
The Wy’east/Mt Hood climb was my first climb ever, not just my first after BCEP. I had been running and hiking a decent amount that spring and I knew I had the endurance to pull it off. But when I first stepped on the snow under the moonlight on a cold mid-June night at midnight, I was in an unfamiliar world. And I felt the fear again. There were five of us, three climbers, Tim Scott, the leader, and Gavin Boggs, the assistant leader. There was a mild breeze, almost pleasant, but there was no sound other than our crampons crunching on crystallized bootpack.
There were not many climbers out on that school night climb. We were together as a team, but I felt like each of us was on an island, lost in our own thoughts, each of us climbing an inner mountain. I wondered if the other two climbers also felt fear. What if one of us bonks, what if I bonk, what if I am too afraid on the steep snow? I shook my head and told myself to think positive thoughts.
The climb went well, I was feeling good. The sun came out and we made it to Devil’s Kitchen by 6 a.m. On Hogsback, Tim did a quick demo of steep snow technique, as he always does on Wy’east/Mt Hood climbs for the first timers. It was just a few degrees below freezing and I had been wearing my down jacket the entire night, so it was now wet with sweat. The water in my backpack’s bladder had frozen. Tim gave us an option to leave our backpacks behind on the Hogsback. I was glad to go light and dump my backpack. I attached my Nalgene to my harness and shoved a trail mix packet into my pocket, and on we went to the Old Chute via the Hot Rocks.
I have summited Wy’east/Mt Hood a few times and I will swear that the Old Chute was at least 500 feet longer than usual that day. It felt never-ending. I was following Tim’s boot pack. One uphill step, rest step, uphill step, switch the ice axe to the uphill side, use the ice axe to pivot my body, make the turn, one uphill step, rest, repeat. My quads had started to feel it, but I kept moving. About 150 feet below the summit, I felt a sharp, painful contraction in my left hamstring. I tried to move up and then I felt it in my left quad. I froze—this time not with fear but with the shooting pain of a severe cramp. I had been running and hiking all spring and I had never cramped until then. Tim turned around to make an uphill turn and probably saw the pain on my face or my awkward stance. He immediately sensed that something was wrong. He asked me, I told him, I am cramping. He walked over. I felt helpless. I looked up at the summit, I could see climbers making final steps up on the Old Chute and then disappearing on the ridge. I thought I may not summit after all. I failed on the only chance I had this year. I felt devastated. Then I realized Tim was standing in front of me. Talking to me. He was asking me how much water I had. Gavin was sweeping some thirty feet below us behind the other two climbers. Sensing that something was wrong, he literally flew up towards me, using both tools for the first time on the climb.
Tim looked concerned, but he was calm. He asked me to drink water and eat something. I did both. In a moment of foresight, I had put electrolyte in my water bottle when I had dumped my backpack, and I drank a third of it. I don’t remember what Gavin and Tim were saying to me at that moment, but I knew they’d help me get down if it came to that. I felt better. My cramp was gone. I forced a smile and said I wanted to continue. I told myself that I could not give up on the climb, especially with the summit so close, even if I go at a snail’s pace.
And that’s what happened. Tim kept looking over his shoulder at me. As the slope steepened we transitioned to high dagger movement, which took most of the stress off of my quads and hamstrings. One step after another, one ice axe stick after another, and soon I felt the terrain mellowing, and I could stand up and walk to the summit. I looked up and saw Tim standing tall at the ridge smiling at us. One step, then another, and soon I too was standing on the ridge. The feeling was indescribable. My first thought was, I can’t believe I just did this. All the emotions came rushing in. I wanted to sit down and cry, not from exhaustion or fear but from pure joy. But surrounded by such sturdy and tough climbers, I decided not to show my emotions; I wiped that one tear from my cheek and soon had a big summit grin plastered on my face.
In that moment I experienced a paradigm shift, an identity change. I had gone through fear of the unfamiliar, physical exertion, and made it through to the jubilation of a dream come true. I have not had that feeling again and I am sure it won’t happen again. That was the moment I became a climber.
I have summited Wy’east/Mt Hood multiple times since (and many hours faster than my first summit time). But that night I began learning my lessons as a climber: how to layer properly and hydrate on cold nights, how to train for uphill travel. But the most important lesson was that the fear never goes away. Nor should it. Fear is not an emotion or a state in itself. Fear is a resistance to a perceived outcome in the future, a subjective and objective evaluation of consequences of actions you can take in the given moment. There are phantom fears and real fears. The key to safe climbing is to identify which kind of fear we are facing and how accurate our subjective evaluation of consequences is. Healthy fear will prolong and enrich our lives, while unhealthy subjective fears will make us miserable and hold us back from reaching our true potential.
And on this intimate journey of facing fears and climbing, I soon faced another nemesis, something that I still struggle with: the good ol’ fear of lead falls. This time I was in the Intermediate Climbing School (ICS), having our lead belay clinic with climbing instructor Juan Rodriguez. I could climb and clip bolts fine, but when it came to taking a lead fall from a bolt at my waist level, the fear took hold of me. I couldn’t breathe, I’d sweat, I’d hold on too tight, and at the final moment of taking a fall, I would down climb a hold or two and then gently let go, almost making it a toprope fall. I saw my course mates effortlessly take lead falls. I used David’s framework, is it my body or is it my brain that is unsafe letting go, but at the moment of taking the fall, my rationality left me, the survival brain took over, and I would do anything except trust the system and let go. And then I realized I may need to do something different. I chatted with Juan and decided to do one-on-one sessions with him.
I remember it was December of 2021, and Juan offered me a timeslot of 6–7 a.m. I would wake up at 5:30 a.m., have a coffee and a banana, and drive over to the climbing gym in Beaverton in the typical rainy, pitch-black Pacific Northwest winter mornings. On the drive over, I would wonder why I signed up to experience misery and fear in a climbing gym, and at such an early hour. But with Juan’s experience and insight, he quickly figured out my problem and started me with some very basic steps. My first task was to climb half way up a 5.9 gym route on a top rope, and then take a fall on light slack. Sounds easy. I went up the route and couldn’t let go initially. After some encouragement from Juan and some self-talk, I was able to let go of the hold and took a tiny top rope fall. OK, that wasn’t so bad. We repeated this several times with more and more slack until I started to trust the top rope, Juan, and most importantly, myself.
In the second session we practiced mock lead falls, in the third session we practiced five lead falls with a relatively tight rope. And then came the moment of truth, the final session: my task was to climb a few moves above the bolt and then take a lead fall. I was still tentative, holding my breath; for the first few falls, I couldn’t go above the bolt. I would hold on to the hold until I would fall because of the pump, instead of actually letting go— and then something snapped in me. I was tired physically and I was tired mentally of being afraid every time. I climbed above the bolt and immediately let go. My first clean lead fall above the bolt. I heard Juan instantaneously yell “Sick!” I knew this was a genuine compliment and not an encouragement, because he sounded almost surprised at my sudden, newfound courage. And to this day that ‘Sick’ from Juan is one of the best and most memorable compliments that I have ever received in climbing.
It wasn’t all smooth sailing after that class with Juan. I still take my sweet time to take a lead fall, I still don’t want to take a fall on trad gear (even though I know the piece I have placed is bomber). Whenever I am nervous or pumped on a route, I do a take to figure out the crux moves before committing to them. I may not be the finest rock climber around, but I am no longer embarrassed about the soft grades I lead. And I do know I have come a very long way from where I had started, thanks to Juan. There is a saying that how you do one thing is how you do everything. I truly believe that climbing and life itself are synonymous. The lessons of discipline and grit that I learned in life, I have applied to climbing, and I’ve applied the frameworks that I learned in climbing—to deal with the phantom fears and limiting beliefs—to life itself. I grew up in a rural town of the agricultural flatlands of Pakistan without any exposure to mountains or endurance sports. I thought mountain climbers are another species. When I was in graduate school in Atlanta, two dozen of my classmates ran the Atlanta Half Marathon, and I thought they were all professional athletes, because until then I did not know anyone who had run such a distance. In short, I had so many limiting beliefs about myself and my abilities that I couldn’t once imagine myself doing things that I can do today.
I still have a hard time calling myself a climber. A non-climber friend recently referred to me as an athlete and I was shocked (and very pleased afterwards). My Pakistani friends and community members have asked me multiple times why I climb mountains and endure harsh elements and physical discomfort. I have thought of and given many answers to this question, but the truth is that I didn’t always know why. But one day I visited Portland for a job interview and saw Wy’east/Mt. Hood, and knew I wanted to summit this mountain. I think climbing Wy’east/Mt. Hood was my destiny, and I did not really have a choice.
But I know now the real reason why I wanted to climb. I saw the mountain and the mountain spoke to me in a language that I could not understand. I felt that the only way I could communicate back with the mountain was by going to its summit. So I went to the summit of Wy’east/Mt Hood and then I went to the summit of many other mountains. And I learned that the path to the summit of the mountain is a path through fear, a journey to oneself, revealing intimate and intricate learnings. Some of these learnings can be communicated, while some can only be experienced and not explained. As the saying goes, the art changes the artist. Let’s just say that climbing makes a climber out of a non-climber.
But I know one thing very clearly: I didn’t become a climber by myself. Every step of the way there were mentors, teachers, and climbers who showed me the way, who taught me something about climbing and about myself every single time I showed up. I am grateful to all of them. But I am most grateful to the teachers and mentors who were patient with me, who allowed me the grace and time to get comfortable with the uncomfortable at my own pace, who believed in my abilities when I didn’t, who encouraged me to take the sharp end of the rope when I second-guessed myself. You all made me a climber and you all changed my life. Thank you.
Dedicated to the memory of David Carrier. May his soul rest in peace and may I (and all of us) be able to always channel his patience and kindness in teaching and climbing.
