Projecting- When Boulders Crush Us.

I want to talk about projecting.

    
      As it turns out, my skin wasn’t quite as thick as I thought...and it’s not just my fingertips that are bleeding through. My spirit is shot, deflating like an abandoned luftballoon that’s begun to wrinkle, fade and sink down miserably into the earth. 

     Ancient boulders are scattered amongst the forest floor, standing still in time; Pieces of history- each with a name and a story. They are the test pieces of our skills, strengths and determination. The essence of our perseverance. If we don’t crush the boulder, it crushes us. Then we cope...process...(okay and maybe cry a little!) in a cycle called projecting.

Finals, Canadian Boulder Nationals

     To set things straight, I am first and foremost a competition climber. That means I get a 5 minute window to perform my best on any given boulder problem. Sometimes I succeed and other times I get the crap kicked out of me. But regardless of my success or failure on that problem, at the end of my five minutes, I have to forget. I am conditioned to let go...and I do.  I do not carry any emotions over when I stare into the face of the next bloc.

     But in the woods nothing is forgotten. Holds are not stripped down, and walls are not collapsed. To some extent, I’ve had to rewire my brain to accommodate this ‘projecting’ thing. Here, I am not allowed to forget my mistakes. Hiding under layers of squandered strength are the subtleties that shatter performance. Failure’s secrets become the most useful tool for success. Then the real game begins. How long you can stare into the challenges of one bloc and how strong you can stay mentally while it beats you to a pulp? To the best of my knowledge, this is projecting defined. 

     Something that fascinates me about outdoor bouldering, are the blocs that I become obsessed with. I have absolutely no control over why or when it happens, it’s just sort of like love at first try. Something comes over me, a realization - That, even though I’m blowing off the individual moves on every die hard attempt, I am undoubtedly capable of each and every move. 

It’s like I can feel the endorphins kicking in and taste the success before it ever happens. Sometimes I fall in love with King lines, other times...the shittiest bloc in the woods. But when it happens I am hooked. There is nothing I can do and the obsession festers.

My preciouuuusss

Her name is Smeagol. The harder eliminant variation is called Gollum. If it were up to me, I’d reverse the names because my bloc is just as evil and two faced. Many people have asked me why I am so fixated on this one shitty bloc. They tell me I should be trying the more beautiful and classic lines of the forest...that I should better invest my time and effort in 7c’s or even 8a’s. 

     They are partially right... I probably would climb something a lot harder and more impressive than Smeagol. But the fact that I have blown off the last move ten times infuriates me. And the start move, which requires the perfect amount of weight distributed between three limbs, flings me off when I have the smallest inkling of a swing. Smeagol has one of the most complex and beautiful moves I have ever experienced in my life. A dance of strength and delicacy. I will never be at peace until I conquer this bloc.

     Many people have joined me while I project. Even the strong ones peel off the first move on their flash attempt. I try to hide it, but it makes me smile a little. After an hour, people either walk it, or walk away- never having lifted their ass off the ground. Either way, their conclusions are usually the same. Greasy. Shitty. Unimpressive. Small. A waste of skin.  

     It hurts my feelings, because they can’t see what I see. Because to me, right now, getting to the top of this silly rock matters more than most things in my world. But I guess I’ll just have to deal with it... 

     Yesterday I nearly threw my shoes across the forest and pulled my hair out. I have now fallen from the last (and easiest) move twelve times. I walked home alone, teary eyes stinging with frustration. It had been my fourth day on, my fingers were bleeding, and my flight to Canada was 48 hours away. I swallowed my pride and threw in the towel. Giving up for now.  

I was absolutely gutted. It literally felt like someone punched me in the stomach when I told Wolf about my day.

Fast forward 24 hours. 

Charlie & The New Base Line tree arch

 It was supposed to be a rest day. I hiked a pad in to support my boys and to spend some time with them before flying. I climbed the warm-up to confirm that my raw tips were in fact still unusable, then spent the rest of the day observing. We hiked up to the New Base Line, and as George projected Voll Gas, I watched as the deteriorating shoes slung from the fallen tree arch dangled in the wind. (If you don’t know the story - Everyone who sends The New Base Line ties their approach shoes on that tree and leaves them there forever.) I wondered how many times those shoes had hiked all the way up here, only to be sent back down, damaged and defeated. I wondered, if at some point, even the strongest climbers felt the way their shoes looked, the way that I felt. 

     I found consolation in the disintegrating sneakers and sat under them in peace. Feeling understood.

     When we hiked down, we passed Smeagol along the way. I slipped my shoes on and sent it first try. 

Fast Forward 24 hours

Bloody tips - a reoccurring theme

 It’s the second time now that the passenger sitting beside me on the plane has asked to see my hands after learning that I’m a rock climber. Last time, I was returning home after competing in Canadian Boulder Nationals. Five fingertips in total were scabbed over. At least this time it was only two.  

     As I look down at my bloody fingertips that cry out it protest over the utter pain and agony shed by this ‘process’ called ‘projecting,’ I can’t help but smile...Because they are proof. Of how badly I wanted it, of how hard I was willing to hold on.  

     So much of this process is about how badly you want it....That ability to never let go and never give up until the taste of success is literally pried from your fingers, over and over again. It’s a freaking emotional bloodbath. But every time you pull onto that boulder, you clutch and guard the possibility of the send tighter than before...until eventually you catch it. 

     And Ironically, when you do, it doesn’t feel like you were holding on tight at all! When I sent Smeagol- aka, that shitty little boulder that no one liked, it was as if a lead weight lifted off my chest when I remembered what this whole process is about. This feeling right here. 

     Those few seconds where you catch your breath in sheer bliss as you stand on top of what seemed to be the world’s greatest challenge. That one victorious sigh of relief, conquer and utter content. Then, the moment is gone. It flutters away, but it leaves behind a tiny smile painted across your lips for the rest of the day.  

     And then...before you know it, your blood thirsty fingers begin to tremble in withdrawal. With the hunger to project something new, and the vicious cycle begins yet again...

  

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Jelisa Dunbar

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