When I arrived in October to Chattanooga — a rock climbing epicenter, I’d been told — I imagined myself rising to a new level of modest self-sufficiency, nothing crazy.
No longer would I leech off the skills of friends, who scurried up walls to set anchors for my enjoyment and made wise-seeming decisions in dangerous situations. When a non-climber comes around, I would tell them: No fear, I’ll handle this — then shepherd them to a lesser-known crag and benevolently and competently tee them up with a top-rope.
I don’t even like climbing that much, but it was a popular activity among my friends in Montana, where I last lived, and the Pacific Northwest, where I grew up. Plus, a basic fluency with ropes and climbing gear is a prerequisite for many mountaineering adventures, which do interest me.