Black and white image of the the final 400m climb of Half-Dome in Yosemite.
I am not a climber.
When I agreed to climb Half Dome with my partner, I was not in the best shape. I was, in fact, in terrible shape. But I said yes anyway, because love makes you do stupid things.
This is the spot where people die. The cables. The last four hundred vertical feet. Granite polished smooth by decades of hands and boots. One slip and you're gone.
There was a group at the base taking bets on whether I'd make it. Actual money exchanged hands. My partner—bless her—was among the doubters. She tried to hide it, but I saw the look. The "we can turn back" look.
I knew I would make it. Not because I'm fit. Not because I'm brave. But because I'm stubborn, and spite is a hell of a motivator.
Every muscle screamed. My hands cramped around the cables. I couldn't feel my legs. But I kept moving. One hand over the other. One foot in front of the next. Until there was no more mountain left to climb.
I made it.
And I'm never doing that again.
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