The Last Word On Nothing

I was about 50 feet up when I started to freak out. I had agreed to come to this Oregon forest and climb a very tall, very old tree with my mom, because it seemed like a nice mother-daughter bonding experience. Now I was approximately one-fifth of the way up a Douglas fir named Sophia, and all I could think about was her nickname, “the Meltdown Tree.”

As he’d helped us suit up with harnesses and helmets, Jason Seppa, our friendly and very patient guide, had chuckled a little as he recounted how the tree had acquired this sobriquet after a particularly trying outing with some other clients. His unspoken assumption was that neither Mom nor me was in danger of melting down. I wanted to prove him right.

In my 20’s, I climbed pretty regularly, and I was familiar with the techniques and equipment. I was still strong, and there was nothing physical to prevent me from bopping right up this tree. Indeed, I was fine for the first few minutes, until I started to spin a little on the rope. The lower part of the tree had no branches, just lots of flaky bark that did not make suitable handholds. To climb a tree like this, you ascend the fixed rope by raising yourself up by the foot loops and handles provided by the jumar ascenders rigged to your harness. It’s basic climbing technique, but on the lower part of the tree, there was not much on the trunk to hold on to, so as I climbed, I swayed and spun on the rope. I kicked my legs out to the trunk to try and steady myself, and as I did, I couldn’t help but look down. That’s when I got into trouble.

Jason and Mom were below me, and Jason must have noticed that I’d stopped. “How are you doing?” he asked.

“Um, I’m trying to forget that I’m sort of afraid of heights,” I yelled down. I was worried this might happen. When I used to rock climb, sometimes I’d freak out in the middle of a climb, usually when I was up high somewhere — totally committed — and struggling. I never had a panic attack or true meltdown, just a horrible, pit of the stomach realization that this adventure on which I’d willingly embarked was suddenly no longer fun and there was no way out but to continue doing the miserable thing until it was done.

Climbing is a lot like writing that way. I start out optimistic and confident. Then, somewhere in the middle, I inevitably start to feel in over my head. The writing project that had seemed so doable in the beginning suddenly looks unworkable. My stacks of research won’t possibly fit into my assigned word count. I can’t settle on the right structure. The narrative that had appeared straightforward at the start has taken me through so many detours that I can no longer find a straight line through. I’m hanging on a rope to which I willingly tied myself and the only escape is to keep reaching until I find a handhold I can use to pull myself up.

While climbing, I learned to cope with my freak outs by not looking down. I would acknowledge that I’d reached the part of the climb where things get a little hairy, then take a deep breath and trust that I’d get through it. Instead of fixating on all the things that could go wrong, I’d focus on the destination above and the most immediate steps to get there.

It’s a fine strategy for writing too. When I reach the part of a writing project where the whole enterprise feels impossible, I force myself to ignore the problems that seem certain to doom the thing, and focus on the little steps that will get me through the first draft. If I can lose myself in the process of putting one word in front of another, I arrive at a complete draft much faster and happier than if I let myself linger on the rope.

And that’s how I decided to climb the damn tree. I fixed my eyes on the hammocks near the top of the tree and then pressed on until I reached them. It didn’t take long, and as I got closer, my unease dissipated. I knew I’d feel better once I was resting in the hammock, and with this comfort zone near, I started to relax.

I eased myself into a hammock, and by the time Mom and Jason arrived a few minutes later, I was totally at ease. The canopy of this 400 or 500-year-old tree was a calm and serene place. Perched nearly 200 feet above the ground, the perspective was grandiose yet intimate. Looking out across the sky, I watched a red tail hawk circle at near-eye level, and heard and then saw an osprey soar just above the treetops. As made myself cozy in the cocoon of my tree hammock, I felt a kind of symbiosis with the tree, as if I were one of the lichens curled around its branches.

The brief stress I’d endured to get here seemed entirely worth it. The three of us relaxed for a long while in the tree. We ate some lunch and then sat back and listened to the Pacific wrens singing nearby and the stream gurgling down below and the breeze flittering through the forest. All the while, I felt grateful that I have a mother who knows that you’re never too old to climb a tree. I didn’t want to leave.

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Photos by Christie Aschwanden