Breaking the One Rule
I was about 150 feet up the side of Enchanted Rock, anchored by nothing but a total of six quickdraws, when I watched my most important carabiner fall down. It was the main piece of gear I needed to get down the Dome, and it had just exploded below me. In that moment I came face to face with my own mortality. There was no way out of that situation without some improvisation - not a word that should be present in one’s first time multi-pitching.
The day had been pretty smooth sailing up until then. It was my first time at Enchanted Rock, and I was being shown the basics of Trad Climbing by this guy Zach Jones, a climber from Bee Cave who was little more than the friend of a girl I was borderline in love with. We had met once before and had shared a recklessly enthusiastic view on climbing and adventure for the intoxicated duration of a Halloween Party.
When I first started climbing two years ago, I instantly fell in love with just about everything about it: the community, the training, and the progress. It was a crutch for me when I was lost, and I owe a lot of who I am today to the sport.
To get up to the crag we went up these Stone Stairs that I call the Pixie Stairs. When we got there they were so beautiful it felt like they were made just for us to enjoy. I got this photo on my phone with no editing whatsoever and it’s the single best picture I’ve ever taken.
Zach had been climbing since he was a kid with his Grandpa. When quarantine started, he became obsessed with climbing and used it to steady himself during bouts with mental illness. Since he lives in the Bee Cave area, he took his Subaru Outback full of gear between Enchanted Rock and Reimers at least 4 times a week while his school was shut down in the fall semester. We started on “Sweat”, an easy 5.7 trad route where I had to trust his belaying abilities despite barely knowing him and never getting any real evidence of his skills. On my first go, I was overly cautious and tried to cheat the route like a sport climber by grabbing onto holds instead of using the jams required that make trad climbing so unique. At the anchors, I had to put my full weight on the rope for the first time, trusting him entirely with my life.
It’s an interesting experience climbing with someone new. In normal friendships, it takes a long time to cultivate the trust needed to put your life in someone’s hands. But in climbing, it’s pretty basic day one stuff, and usually goes like: I need a belayer, you can belay, please don’t drop me. I had barely known this guy for more than 18 accumulative hours, and he was leading me into the desert to hoist me up a mountain, and it was completely normal for me to accept this.
For my second go, I calmed down and listened to Zach’s advice. I used jams a little better and fully committed to this completely new style of climbing, and in about half the time of the first go, I was back at the top. I had trusted him, and he had done well with that trust. He knew the route thoroughly like committed climbers do, and he could instruct me through sections when I asked for it.
At the second set of anchors, Zach and I enjoyed the sight of the progress we had made. It was the perfect place to slow down and be present in the moment.
That’s a beautiful part about climbing. It’s dependent on independence. You can’t carry someone up a mountain or walk them through every individual micro move on how to hold the rock. Your partner has to figure it out for themselves, but can call on you for advice.
That’s what happened on Mark of the Beast, the multi-pitch route that we eventually ended up on, when my carabiner fell down. I had to improvise and execute my next few moves very carefully, but Zach gave me all the information I needed. The plan was to use two of the quickdraws together as my replacement locking carabiner. But there was one problem— I was using all of my quickdraws to keep myself on the rock.
Before this route, neither of us had ever done any multi-pitch climbing. We had decided in the moment to go for it because it was a sick opportunity that we couldn’t pass up. He gave me a crash course in the necessary knots and techniques, the most important of which was to never, EVER, unclip in anyway from the rock. Screwing up here means certain and immediate death.
So there I was with six total quickdraws holding me on the rock. All six were being pulled taut by my weight, and I couldn’t shift my center of gravity to put some sort of slack in the chain to give me room to work with. There was no room for screw ups at all. I had to unclip two of the six quickdraws, each of which were absolutely crucial to my maintaining my life as I knew it. I had to break the number one rule and unclip from the rock entirely and just hold onto the slick chain with my bare, sweaty hands.
I’m not a claustrophobic person. I can generally handle pressure, especially if it involves my own abilities. But I felt afraid. My entire world consisted of the metal in my hands and Zach on the ground.
I unclipped and was free, holding a lock off with one hand and maneuvering the draws with the other, both of which were pumped and fatigued from the day. The silence throbbed in my ears as I clipped back in safely and began the rappel back down. At the bottom of the rock, I still felt tense and alert from the adrenaline, but also relieved and extremely emotional. I gave Zach a hug and collapsed, thankful to be alive. I had met my own mortality that day, and Zach led me through it.
Looking back, that was one of the best days of my life. A stranger had become a close friend and I had trusted him to guide me through something completely unknown. Through a potentially fatal situation, I had found my inner silence— a focus and intensity that steadies the nerves and is focused entirely on completion of a goal. I found myself that day in Enchanted Rock, and it wouldn’t have been possible without Zach.
Photos by Andrew Peterson
Art by Doris Tang