Gracie's First Multi-pitch
by Susan E.B. Schwartz

My husband and I met rock climbing in the Shawangunks and married nine months later on the side of a mountain in Colorado. So it was a given that mountains would figure prominently in our family life.

Fast forward to Columbus Day last year: It's a glorious Northeast autumn morning as I pile into the station wagon with John and our seven year old daughter, Gracie. We're off on our family version of the all-American outing: Is it to the mall? Grandma? Home Depot? No, the Gunks for Gracie's first multi-pitch rock climb.

For the occasion, we pick an old beginner's classic, Belly Roll 5.4. Our plan is that Mom will lead, Dad will tie in several feet below Gracie, for support and safety. Now, as Mom gears up at the base, she feels the pressure.

My last time on this climb was fifteen years - a fledgling leader, I threw myself into the wide "Belly Roll" crack, got stuck by cams clipped on my harness gear loops, and thrashed my way up it in a most undignified position.

As I peer into the "Belly Roll" crack looking for pro, I call down to John, "Hey, hon, whose bright idea was it to pick this route?"

He grins. "Zeke!"

In case you wondered, Zeke is our dog. Gracie and I laugh together, as I turn back to the rock and stare again into the Belly Roll.

A strange phenomenon takes place.

For the past seven years, I've barely climbed. That's a long time -- a Biblical passage (seven years of feast, seven years of famine) or an American legalism (a missing person is legally dead after seven years).

It wasn't that I fell out of love with climbing, but that scarce free time went into starting a family -- in addition to Gracie, there is four year old, Matt -- and writing the Hans Kraus biography, Into the Unknown. When I returned to climbing this spring, it was with fresh perspective: Every day at the cliffs is squeezed into a schedule of childcare, aging relatives, homework, housework, soccer drop offs, playdate pick-ups, birthday parties, sometimes even a little writing. Climbing is no longer something I take for granted, but a gift.
Turns out that the long layoff has enabled me to shake some bad, ingrained habits. In my memory, the Belly Roll crack loomed terrifyingly sheer -- despite its 5.4 grade -- but now I notice all sorts of handholds and stances. Muttering "Zeke's choice, humph!," I concede that canine's judgment wasn't half bad. Quickly, I find myself up the crux and out the crack.

When I reach the tree belay before the second pitch, I look out over the Ulster County countryside several hundred feet below. And recall that one of the reasons I climb is for the belays.

It is up here, far away from the everyday, nanosecond, 24/7, urbanized, connected, over-connected, frantic world, that I find a rare and hard earned serenity. On a comfortable and roomy Gunks belay ledge, life seems so clear, rational, optimistic, timeless.

I watch turkey vultures swooping below, farms and woodlands that from here look much like they did half a century ago. I look at the tree next to me -the same, I have no doubt, that Gunks climbing pioneers, like Hans Kraus, over sixty years ago wrapped hemp ropes around for their hip belays.

After quadruple checking my anchors and belay, I call out to John that he and Gracie are on belay, ready to climb. And I happily prepare myself for a long stay on the belay ledge.
I'm mistaken.

Gracie flies up the Belly Roll - at fifty pounds, she jumps inside with plenty of room to twist and turn. A particularly reachy and pumpy corner is difficult and scary for her - the guidebook calls it a second crux. But she manages with aplomb.

When and John shortly reach the belay, she is poised and smiling. John ties her in, and she settles in happily on the wide, comfy ledge.

The last pitch offers a series of exposed corners. At the top, I set the belay so I can hear and see John and Gracie as they climb up. Again, it doesn't take long.

I hear Gracie's voice - calm, assured, in her dulcet, seven year old tones. Now I can make out John pointing to birds and farms below. I can see Gracie inclining her head as she chimes backs to her father, with a smile so sweet and pure, it breaks my heart.

Watching John and Gracie together on the rock, climbing also takes on a new dimension for me. It's not just the Belly Roll crack I see with fresh eyes -- it's my daughter as well.

I love Gracie's joy and innocence -- how she skips down a block instead of walking, runs with her arms cartwheeling in glee, careens down the playground slide laughing with her mouth open. Yet she is tough and uncomplaining on icy, bitterly cold ski slopes. Or like today - I've seen beginning adults terrified on this climb, and here Gracie is so composed.

"You're awesome, Gracie! I'm so proud of you." I call out to her.

Sitting on the belay, it occurs to me: Do I say these things enough to her, not just today, but off the cliffs as well? Do I tell her enough how thrilled I am that she is such a happy child? That I am amazed and grateful that she is my daughter?

Before I became a mother, I had no idea of any of this. As I look out at the exposed stances on the cliffs, it occurs to me: Being a parent is like climbing an exposed route. All the explanations in the world from other people don't matter, all the descriptions you read in books can't do it justice.

Until you're there yourself, perched precariously, staring out at air all around, you have absolutely idea what it's like.

When John and Gracie join me at the top, we savor the view before hiking down and ending the day on a high note by celebrating in town with ice cream.

Later that night, Gracie and I talk before I tuck her in. I am so excited for her -her first multi-pitch climb after all!

"I'm not going to tell people at school about climbing today," she tells me, as I stroke her forehead.

"Why not honey?" I ask. "You have such nice friends. And I bet your teacher would love to hear about it too."

"Because they won't understand," Gracie replies. "They won't think it's a big deal or anything that special."

I smile at Gracie, pull up the blanket, and kiss her good night. Already, Gracie, at seven, understands so much.

Submitted by Susan E.B. Schwartz
Contact info: Tel 203-665-6411 Cell 203-257-4103
email: susan@susanebschwartz.com author website www.susanebschwartz.com