The rock we’re supposed to climb, its frikkin frightening. We get out of our motorcade and look up as far up as we can see; only then can we see the red dot of a tee-shirt that is to be our climbing instructor.
The hike has been bloody long, the rocks bloody scary, and our flagging academia inclined muscles stretching for the first time in years. We diligently queue up at the bottom of the climbing pitch, spirits intact, a healthy amount of terror slowly sinking in. We wear our safety harnesses, and sit down and wait.
We’re unabashedly ogling the instructors. The youngest one, my God, his ass is to die for. He’s got the whole preppie lean white boy look that could get land him on any cover anywhere in the world. He’s just born with the kind of swagger that makes even a less than hot blooded person like me give him a second look. However, as usual, I’m bored in ten minutes, because what the other girls don’t notice is that he’s just one more pathan newly out of the village. He’s not used to dealing with girls who are ok with standing and ogling him, not used to our fast paced, cell phone wielding life styles. I lose interest, concentrate on the banker who’s flown up to climb with some of the instructors. He’s not very interested in a bunch of over hyper college kids, and he’s trying to climb the most difficult pitch. I can’t help raising eye brows as he takes a drag from what is definitely a joint, then puts on his safety rope, and grits his teeth and flexes surprising muscles on the overhang. Silence ripples through us; without realizing we’ve all stopped what we were doing to watch him.
The pitch juts out at an impossible angle. The rock face is so steep that all his weight is on his arms. He slowly stretches out, and is spread eagled on a rock that is almost sheer. Bracing on one foot, his hand reaches to an impossible hand hold, and his entire body is supported on it. He then does a series of maneuvers that seem so simple (yea rite) and then hooks his legs way higher than where even his outstretched hand lies, and pulls himself up with only one ankle securely held in place.
When he finally reaches the top of the climb, we all clap. He finishes his joint sitting silhouetted against the cirrus clouds, looking far away into some demons we can’t see.
The hike has been bloody long, the rocks bloody scary, and our flagging academia inclined muscles stretching for the first time in years. We diligently queue up at the bottom of the climbing pitch, spirits intact, a healthy amount of terror slowly sinking in. We wear our safety harnesses, and sit down and wait.
We’re unabashedly ogling the instructors. The youngest one, my God, his ass is to die for. He’s got the whole preppie lean white boy look that could get land him on any cover anywhere in the world. He’s just born with the kind of swagger that makes even a less than hot blooded person like me give him a second look. However, as usual, I’m bored in ten minutes, because what the other girls don’t notice is that he’s just one more pathan newly out of the village. He’s not used to dealing with girls who are ok with standing and ogling him, not used to our fast paced, cell phone wielding life styles. I lose interest, concentrate on the banker who’s flown up to climb with some of the instructors. He’s not very interested in a bunch of over hyper college kids, and he’s trying to climb the most difficult pitch. I can’t help raising eye brows as he takes a drag from what is definitely a joint, then puts on his safety rope, and grits his teeth and flexes surprising muscles on the overhang. Silence ripples through us; without realizing we’ve all stopped what we were doing to watch him.
The pitch juts out at an impossible angle. The rock face is so steep that all his weight is on his arms. He slowly stretches out, and is spread eagled on a rock that is almost sheer. Bracing on one foot, his hand reaches to an impossible hand hold, and his entire body is supported on it. He then does a series of maneuvers that seem so simple (yea rite) and then hooks his legs way higher than where even his outstretched hand lies, and pulls himself up with only one ankle securely held in place.
When he finally reaches the top of the climb, we all clap. He finishes his joint sitting silhouetted against the cirrus clouds, looking far away into some demons we can’t see.
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