Small Dogs, Big Faces

We didn’t speak after I announced giving up. There was little choice; Rob had to lead us to the top – I was incapable. The route had not been easy for either of us, after all there are no pitches easier than 5.12 and some pitches were as hard as 5.13. The sun beat its debilitating rays down on us.

Rob chalked his hands and set off on the boiling, urine-covered stone. The minutes passed as my mind tried to regain composure. Thoughts crawled through my head like thick molasses. Fear permeated from my skull with the question: Even if he finishes the lead, what the hell am I going to do? I’m so tired I can’t move.

Rob led the pitch without problem. I let every drop of self-regard fade away and climbed to get to the top. I reached the base of the roof and pulled hard on a fixed sling and yanked myself up. I followed like a drunkard. All the caffeinated energy gels and vitamin drink did little to help me now. I was climbing on fumes. Rob led the last pitch too. I managed to somehow follow.

The journey to the ground was slow. I was forced to go barefoot. My feet had swelled to the size of paddles. I walked like a foot bound concubine.

Rob and I continued to climb together nearly every weekend. Thankfully, he never game me the “look” again. The Westie Face, however was now solely my project.
Six months passed until I found the right partner. I called Rob up: “I can’t climb with you for the next two weeks. I have a friend coming out from Colorado and I promised I would climb with him.”
“This conversation is over,” he replied and hung up the phone.