Bouldering is the absolute WORST. And by “WORST” I mean freaking best, but right now it’s ripping my body apart. Right now, my arms are experiencing what I can only equate to growing pains on steroids and my knees are so banged up, they look like Holsteins with psoriasis. And I kind of want to cry. And curl up in the fetal position. And never move again. But I’m trying to be strong.
In case you don’t know, bouldering is basically just an alternative to traditional rock climbing. Instead of climbing with ropes and a belayer, you just go up a wall on your own with no gear, except maybe a chalk bag. It gets a little sketch sometimes. Like when you climb up a wall and attempt to step your way back down, but surprise! The holds have magically A) disappeared, B) moved, or C) turned into cheese holds (namely, holds that are no larger than a slice of cheese–don’t judge me for my made up names). At that point, you’re either going to have to jump or slip while going down. There is no win-win in this situation. EVER. And I have no concept of height/width, but the bouldering walls I’ve been climbing have got to be at least fifteen feet tall. So I get to the top and then I look down and then I panic and shake like a wet dog. It’s great fun.
Yesterday my sister and I went to the Rock Haus, and we spent a good chunk of time bouldering. And feeling like outcasts. Climbing culture is weird that way. You’re always caught between complete strangers who have no idea what they’re doing and want to make friends with everybody so they can get more climb time in or the bearded, scruffy ones who chill out upstairs and don’t talk to anyone who isn’t climbing at a 5.10 level.
Then there is my sister and I. Complete dweebs who do whatever we want.
Gotta have a few good tunes when you boulder. Also: apologies for the swear-laced popup comments. I have no idea how to hide those: