The Colt and the Wild Horse 

I always have the sensation and feeling that climbing isn’t an easy activity. The difficulty of where to place my feet and the non-balance sensation was really what attracted me to the sport.  Before I began climbing, I would harness all of my teenage energy by practicing traditional team sports like soccer, basketball, and handball. Each Sunday I would watch an “adventure” TV program, and I got impressed watching a couple of girls climbing a classical route on Verdon Gorge in France. The aesthetic of the climbing, the aesthetic of those women, captivated me so much that I immediately phoned my sister’s boyfriend. Tomas didn’t climb regularly, so he put me in contact with other guys in the mountain community of our town. I almost could not sleep all the week; I was excited about the idea of the first steeps I would encounter the next weekend for my first climbing experience. 

D-day and H-hour finally came. Tomas and his friends pick me up early in the morning. My mom was worried, nervous, and preoccupied, but the idea of going with my sister’s boyfriend was a good alibi for me. 

I wasn’t the typical daughter that wore pink dresses or played with Barbie dolls. My mother would look at my knees immediately after I returned home from the playground every week. If they were full of wounds, I got punished. Until my knee injuries disappeared, I couldn’t go play with my boys’ gang at the town playground. 

For my mother, this first, special day of climbing was like a playground up there in the mountains. It was an inaccessible place where the crazy mountaineers risked their lives. I was 16, almost 17, years old. My mother tried with all her energy to teach me to be prepared for a standard life. But I, her daughter, at this time was pretty independent.