Solar Flare

Through the trees, the band of gneiss appeared seemingly out of nowhere. The cliff itself was not tall—fifty feet or so—and sat squatly in segments along the ridgeline. The tone of the crag resembled elephant skin—taught, grey, and striated with lines. At its base a half dozen people milled about, all wearing climbing harnesses and some coiling or uncoiling ropes. It was my sophomore year in high school and was the second time I had traveled to climb at Rose Ledges in western Massachusetts with the small, motley club from my high school. With a little less than a year of rock climbing under my belt, each new location and each experience was rapidly redefining my understanding of the sport. On the main wall a serrated, right leaning flake dominated the face. White chalk from dozens of hands had dusted its whole length indicating a clear and well defined path. For a while I stood there, sweating from the approach and watching a man step off the ground and onto the wall.

He was starting up this prominent feature called Tennessee Flake, leading as he went. About ten feet off the ground, he placed a solid cam in the first major horizontal seam to protect his ascent and kept moving up the route. I marveled at his fluid movement. Having top-roped the route that last time I was here, I knew that the climb was not for novices as the handholds and body positions were not always straight forward. About halfway up, he did something that I was not prepared for. He moved left and away from the security of the flake which provided both large handholds and plenty of opportunities for gear in the crack. He stepped gingerly out onto the face and transitioned to a thin, incipient seam which jagged leftward like a great leaning W.

This line had no chalk on it and therefore appeared to have never been climbed before. The fissure was barely wide enough for his finger tips. The climber stopped to coolly fiddle tiny stoppers into the fracture. Each thin wire bobbed maniacally as the rope slipped through the carabiner clipped to the loop, and this motion threatened to jostle them from their shallow and precarious placements. With as much composure as he had started up Tennessee Flake, he completed his ascent of this route called Solar Flare. At the top, he did not shake his fist in victory. The group below, which had watched tensely throughout the performance, did not applaud for him. They just turned back to their conversations. However for me, my paradigm of climbing had just been radically shifted. I stood there silently, probably jaw agape, studying the line the rope traced away from the common path and up a section of wall that I knew had a name but could not believe had been led so casually.

What does this anecdote have to do with running, scholarships, or college?

Just three months ago, I was standing at the base of an ice climb in Montana. I had not lead “real” ice in several years, having only climbed a little easy alpine ice and messed around seracing on local glaciers in the fall. The route was intimidating and long and steep. It was ridiculously cold; my fingers and toes were numb. My stomach churned with anxiety. My climbing partner looked me in the eye and said as simply as it could be put, “You can do this.” It was not intended to psych me up. It was hardly an affirmation either. It was a statement of truth. His words echoed in my mind, colliding with my own internal pronouncements of confidence. I slapped my palm against my helmet, clapped my ice tools gently against each other, and sent it.

One of the most valuable lessons that I have received during all my years of climbing has been the notion that the community you choose to associate with very closely correlates with the amount of success that you will achieve. There is no doubt that individual vision matters. In the end, you need to make the moves, control the fear, or handle the situation. However, it cannot be overstated how significant it is to have a group of people who are standing with you also saying, “This is possible”. That is not to say that every person may be able to achieve the vision. I doubt that anyone else watching the climber lead Solar Flare could have replicated the accomplishment. I also doubt that he required their collective support of his vision.

I think about my students and the community that they live in. I wonder what their collective vision is regarding their future, their opportunities, and their aspirations. I can tell you that from my own experience, my own choice to attend college was an easy one. The various communities of which I was a part made the decision a clear one. I was fortunate to have the financial, social, and familial resources to propel me in that direction. For me the route was already well chalked; for many of my students, though, college is a Solar Flare—light and energy arcing into the dark void of space. It requires a shift in the paradigm. The path is precarious. Strength of mind is a greater asset than the strength of the protection against failure. Those of you who choose to donate to this scholarship stand at the base watching tensely, hoping for the best outcome possible.

For my ultra-marathon two months from now, I have that base of support. Several friends are running the event with me. Others are crewing to provide support. An even greater number of people have told me that they stand behind the project and expect complete success saying through both words and actions, “This is possible”. By logging on to this blog, by sharing it with people who may be interested in the project, you too can expand that group of people who are sending the same message to those students who are struggling to get a college education. Yes, “This is possible!”