“Where’s the pub?” I whined. Jonathan, attempting to document my meltdown on video, tripped on a cobblestone and lay capsized in the street. Dickey, hypoglycemic, couldn’t even laugh.
We eventually found our apartment and ditched our bags. With renewed enthusiasm, we quested out into the myriad of the legendary dangerous sandstone pillars. There were over a thousand, each unique in shape, height and character, but all with the same renowned reputation. We had come to climb these monsters. 
The climbing here was not for the timid. Falling was usually not an option because of scarce fixed protection and the fact that other placements were knotted or threaded pieces of cord and webbing. Without a guide or guidebook, we remained optimistic and went our separate ways into the maze seeking a line we could climb. I was awed by the deep chasms and charmed by an idyllic spring. Thick green moss framed something on the wall….A memorial plaque for perished climbers! Spooked, I hightailed it back and found Dickey, who had previously been kidnapped and held hostage in Krykystan by rebels (true story), nervously rolling a cigarette.
Jonathan crashed through the trees into the somber scene and hollered, “Ho lee feckin sheet! I didn’t see a single route I would be willing to lead!” At least now I didn’t have to say it.
“But, darling Brittany, I did find one for you!”
“I’ll take photos!” Dickey brightly offered.
“I’ll write the story!” Jonathan, the handsome editor coerced.
“But we haven’t enough gear” I whimpered. We had ten quick draws, three shoulder length slings, and a piece of cordelette that I had been using as a camera strap.
“Oh yes, we do.” Jonathan said with a smirk.
Because of staunch, archaic local ethics, modern, high-tech (safe) metal gear was not allowed. Fixed protection was scarce. Bolts were rusty, doorknocker like rings attached to spikes hammered into the soft sandstone. Other than that, threads and knots were the norm.
I squinted up at the proposed line and mentally rehearsed a sequence [scenario?]. Ratchet fingers in small crack for fifteen feet, slot in camera strap knot for my first piece of protection, climb another fifteen feet, lasso a spike, continue on for an undetermined distance to a whitish jug. That was as far as I could see and psychologically digest. Oohh, I don’t want to be a rock climber today. I was scared.
“Come on,
I took one last look at his man hands holding my useless rope and stepped onto the awaiting pitch.
I wouldn’t be able to get in sufficient protection gear for a while, so if I fell, I would deck.
“Are you sure you can still catch me?” I moaned, twenty feet up.
“Yeah yeah, sure sure.” He lied.
I was afraid to look down to see just how small my Big Loud American Male spotter had become.
I fished the camera strap knot into the crack. I pulled lightly on it to set it. It came out. Becoming increasingly more pumped, I placed it a little higher and this time didn’t test it. I focused ahead on a big white hold. I clawed and paddled up the gritty face to reach it. It was filthy with bird poo. Without a moment’s hesitation, I thrust my hand into the gooey hole, slapped the grimy ledge and stood up onto the refuge of the five-inch wide shelf.
I rested my cheek against the face and breathed heavily. I cautiously tilted my head up toward the remaining terrain. A wide, mawing crack continued to the summit.
I started up the crack. It was wet. I panicked and tried to reverse my moves back down to the ledge. I blindly slid down with dangling feet and landed at my previous stance.
I swore with words that would have put a punk rock lyricist to shame and considered jumping. But I could smell the pine tree on the summit. I desperately wanted my rope (and arms) around its sturdy trunk. In a blur, I reached the tree, and stood atop our first, albeit short, tower. I slumped against the pine and collapsed, saying out loud that I would never do that again.
