The tiny fat hands of my 8-month-old son grasp my fingers as he balances precariously on fat little legs, the concept of taking steps still not present in his young mind. I lean him forward in hopes that the shift of center will encourage the natural step towards equilibrium, but no step follows. A gummy smile beams upward at me as if to tell me he is content with simply standing. He won’t remember these hours of disbelieving stares and light hearted laughter like I will. The amazement of a young parent enshrined in blissful memories. My heart is heavy in my chest as I realize I am watching a baby progress into a kid. Soon he will have thoughts of his own and a will to speak the words of his own crafting. As I was contemplating these thoughts, my son decided to attempt a dive, catching me completely off guard and reminding me that, even now, I do not control him. He is a sovereign citizen of life and in life there are consequences.
Snatching the confused child just before he hit the floor, I was just as shocked as he was. The surprise of instant reaction dumped an ever so slight amount of adrenaline into my system, causing a euphonic excitement. Sure, my kid almost crashed into the hard wood floor, but I caught him. The scene reminding me to never underestimate the explosive power of will harbored in the human potential of intent.
In 2009, I was 20 years old, children and wife far from my mind, when my friend Zack, who had been attending outdoor school in Alaska, invited me on a 10-day sport climbing trip in Mexico at an area known as Potrero Chico. This would be my first ever sport climbing trip. I had done a fair amount of bouldering, a ropeless form of climbing that relies on thick pads of foam to cushion the landing in case of a fall, however, sport climbing is roped climbing and relies on quick draws and pre-place bolts for safety. I had seen it done and was sure there was nothing to it. Knowing that I had never been on a rope outside didn’t even cross my mind as a deterrent. I booked the trip with the bravery that comes from youthful ignorance. My parents professed a slight resignation towards my safety, but still gave a nod of encouragement.
It was early afternoon on the first day of my trip just outside of the town of Hidalgo, Mexico, and I was at the top of the Virgin Canyon, one named for the shrine of the Virgin Mary that lay at the entrance to the lime stone canyon. I was roping in at the base of a climb named Mr. Jesus, a 5.10 that Zack assured me was a good first lead. My heart raced and I could feel butterflies not only in my stomach but tickling the upper parts of my throat. I had been working a minimum wage full-time job for the past year and had climbed very little in preparation for what I was about to attempt. My hands were sweaty as I tied the end of the rope into my harness, all the while Zack verbally explaining how to do what I was about to do, his hands swinging in repetitive motions above his head demonstrating how to clip the bolts and lace the rope into the drawls. I dazed off in thought, wondering if a route named Mr. Jesus would be considered sacrilegious, this gap in consciousness caused me to only catch every emphasized word of instruction. Stance, bla bla, clip, don’t do, make sure you, yada yada.
Next thing I knew, I was at the crux of the climb. My toes cramped and forearms screamed, attesting to the unprepared nature of my fitness. After two or three desperate moves, I mantled onto a 3-inch-wide ledge, shocked that I had pulled the section, sheer luck and terrified ambition to blame. A bolt was directly in front of my face and a few easy looking moves lay between me and an on-site send of my first outdoor lead route. Elation comes to mind to describe my emotion. This glory was momentarily lived as Zack’s next advice startled me. “Take a fall!” Zack hollered up to my height. “This would be a safe first one to take.” My apprehension was a testament to the necessity of his advice. You can’t perform full octane if you are a scared little bitch. So, I made the impulsive step backward of blind faith and, before I knew what had happened, the terror of free fall had subsided as I settled onto the tension of the rope, cradled in my harness. I let out a relieved scream as the excitement filled my very toes. Zack let out an approving “right on man, now climb it again and clip into the chains at the top!”
This next part is where the magic of consequence that creates character and resolve appeared. The blur of fury that had accompanied my first go at the crux was replaced with the crystal-clear reality of fatigue and rationality that this may be a little much for me. Grasping a slightly different sequence of holds left me in a more difficult position than my previous attempt, resulting in me being forced to grab a vertical slot resembling the letter V. The gap at the top permitted my middle finger to slide in stacking my index and ring on top. In the next moment, my foot, which was precariously placed on a slick edge, popped causing me to fall and settle out three feet below my last bolt. Disappointment rushed over me. I had fallen on the section that I had climbed, scared and desperate, not 4 minutes earlier. The disappointment was quickly replaced by horror as I glanced down to a stream of blood pouring from my now filleted finger. The flow of blood was so heavy that it precluded my vision of seeing the true extent of the damage. “Lower me!” I yelled receiving the expected response of “Finish it! Get to the top!” “I can’t! lower me.” This time, Zack’s response was the release of tension and the consequential dissention of my physical body resembling that of my metaphysical psych.
Reaching the bottom, my climbing partner observed the carnage. Blood flooded as swift as the waters of the Guadalupe river that separated me from my home state of Texas. “That’s not good,” Zack stating the obvious and true statement that flowed through both our minds. A climbing trip consists of toes and finger tips and I had just shredded my left middle finger the first hour of the first day of climbing. I removed my shirt, tightly wrapping it around my finger and held it over my head. I was properly fucked.
As we descended the canyon, I resisted the temptation to look at my finger knowing that it would reveal bad or worse news. Zack was gleefully telling me about a multi-pitch climb that he had climbed the day prior, attempting to occupy my focus. It worked and by the bottom of the canyon, my youthful resilience and since of humor had replaced my dread. I almost looked forward to the inspection of my injury, accepting the lack of real pain as a good sign. Peeling away the shirt from the congealing blood revealed an inch-long slash on the left side of my left middle finger. I was not much of a drinker back in Texas, as I was only 20 years old, but this was Mexico and the law of the land permitted me a mixed buzz of tequila and cheap beer. Since the cut was on the side of my finger, I had, in drunken stupor, convinced myself that I was better than fine. Assuredly this would be the last injury of the trip and I was lucky to escape with so minimal damage I told myself. That night ended with me half in half out of the tent throwing up and passing out. The next morning my head hurt far more than my finger as I headed up the various canyons in search of the natural high which accompanies the clipping of bolts.
I am already nervous imagining the precarious situations that my young son will one day find himself in. I know that I will have to let him bleed, to experience consequence, if he hopes to ever find himself. I am temped to tell him to only be safe, to insist that he adopts my worries and fears as his own. With loving intent, we have created a helicopter society with the goal of protection from the dangers of our own nature. Yet it is the excitement that comes from the unknown and undefined characteristics of nature that allows access to creative design and the innovative spirt innate in the human soul. The flame of human potential burns brightest in the ambition of unrestrained youthful actions of those who dare to find their limits. Limits are only found where consequence is present. Helicopter parenting is a natural inclination. In attempting to protect children from adversity, we offer protection from the very thing that gives life its meaning. The blessings of the human condition manifest as both pleasure and pain and you can’t experience one without the other. Through suffering, salvation is found. In the sacrifice of the helicopter society there will be blood, for it is the blood you leave behind that you will remember, not the blood that stays safely with you.
