“It’s the fear that lives in a forest of stone were the sun rarely filters down and the ground is not so soft.”

A cold wind blows across the snow covered Utah desert, momentarily distracting my thoughts. I have spent the past hour contemplating the 20-foot section of blank rock ahead of me. It looms like a riddle needing to be solved before I can be allowed further passage.
Below are a dozen birdbeaks, freshly pounded into the soft Cutler sandstone of the Fisher Towers. They mark many stomach churning hours of work already done today.
I decide to commit to a series of hook pendulums and call down to my partner for slack, to no avail. “Spawn” I yell again, my body starting to shake with fear.

“I’m busy.” He curses back.

I tug the rope; a meager amount slides through the Gri-Gri. I clip it to the hook and bounce up and down. “Hold me here.”

The sweat on my forehead mixes with sand, burning as it runs into my eyes. I wipe it away and feel lines of rashes break out on my face.

I lean on the rope; still there is no tension.

“I said hold me here!”

No response. His mind is obviously somewhere else – I have been on lead for five hours already - knowing him it’s probably some chick. I can smell the odor of fear penetrating through my fleece. My stomach grumbles. “Shut up” I whisper, hoping that my own stomach will at least heed my orders. I continue to force my tortured soul up the muddy stone.

“Okay.” He calls out, oddly contented.

I weigh the rope again. This time it holds.