Breath Control and Extreme Climbing

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There have been a couple of noteworthy times in my climbing career when proper control of the breath has literally saved my life. Together with a sober Aristotelian respect for reality, the Buddha's advice on mindful breathing has made the difference between success or grievous injury. When engaged in extreme climbing, one is often a knife's-edge away from losing the psychological control necessary to stay on the wall. Physical strength and skill is taxed to the limit, and it is only the mental part of the game that adheres one to the mountain.
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By "extreme" climbing, I mean pushing oneself beyond your limits, climbing harder than you ever have before. Thus, for the great Reinhold Messner, an extreme climb would be a world-class record-breaking endeavor, but for me (never a strong climber) an extreme climb would be a simpler, easier one that would nevertheless tax my limits to the hilt. For others it would be a piece of cake. It's all relative to the ability level.
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In 1978, I decided to "free solo" a rock climb that is rated moderately easy. I had climbed much harder climbs with top-rope protection, but “free soloing" means climbing without a safety rope of any kind. To fall means to hit the ground, and that can make it an extreme climb if it taxes your abilities to their max. Free soloing is dangerous, but it is also great style and is very satisfying if you pull it off.
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It was my second year of technical rock climbing. I had provisionally named this climb "The Law of Identity" or “A is A” after Aristotle's law of logic. (Reality is what it is – “A is A” -- and you cannot pretend that it is different from its actual nature or identity.) On this climb, your technique, called a "Lay-Back," had to be without contradiction, the rock had to be dry, and your psychological stuff had to be together and completely sorted out.
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I had climbed this route many times before on a top-rope, where trusted friends had belayed me with a safety rope to catch me in case of a fall. I had fallen on many of these early attempts, but I had successfully climbed it many times, so I knew the moves.
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This time I was alone. The rock was dry. I had just come from several intensive rock climbing trips in the Adirondack Mountains and was in fine shape, and I had practiced the Lay-Back move on rock and in my head (using subliminal rehearsal before sleep and immediately after waking). I was ready, and I was tuned.
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Standing at the foot of the climb, I let my breath find the right relaxed and even place, the mindfulness of breathing that the Buddha advised. Then I got on the climb and paused at the very bottom to assess both my sense of adhesion and my finger strength. It felt good and right, so I committed to the climb, took in a full, slow breath and moved up. It is a sustained difficulty in its first half, so you must move quickly, surely and confidently.
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I aimed for the first rest spot, a little slanting ledge that you can just barely get your feet on. All my strength and endurance was nearly spent as I moved up to the ledge, and I reached it, panting for breath. I think that fear was taking as much wind from me as was the physical effort. You are off-balance on this little spot, pushed out by the over-hanging rock wall, so you have to jam an arm into the crack to hold you in.
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As I jammed myself into position on the tiny ledge, I realized that I needed to keep from becoming the least bit psychologically unglued, or I would fall off. And I was scared. I had barely enough reserves of strength to finish to the top, and fear was causing my legs to shake. Climbing back down was impossible, because that first half was the most sustained part of the climb. I could only go up.
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So I concentrated on the breath. Easy, full in. Easy, full out, with the anxieties and fears leaving me with every exhalation. I looked out at the forest and lake, which were level with my eyes. I looked up at the climb above. But I never once looked down. I imagined that I was standing on a little ledge that was only one foot off the ground, and that I was merely trying to perfect my climbing moves with no danger involved, refusing to fall off merely as a matter of pride in one’s craft. I found myself enjoying the scenery with delight, tuning out the fact that I was in a precarious situation. The breath returned to normal.
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When I would look up to plan my next moves, my heart would start to race. I would then concentrate again on the breath, look at the beauty of the rock crystals that were an inch from my eye, and listen to the wind in the pine tree on a ledge above. Never look down. Regain control of the breath. Regain equanimity. It took a number of attempts before I could calmly work out my strategies.
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One more rest ledge before the top. The wall over-hangs, so I could not afford a mistake. I grunted and huffed, scraped and scratched, and fought and battled my way up, pausing where necessary to work on the awareness of breath. When I reached the rest ledge, I let my exhaustion work itself out in a series of breaths, first deep and heaving, then more moderate and measured, and finally easy and deep. Concentrating on the mindfulness of breathing, control of mind and body rebounded back.
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The final move to the top was an awkward foot placement, requiring more mental concentration than brute strength. It was terrifying. I completed it with one controlled exhalation.
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I was on top. I breathed more easily for the rest of the day. This remains one of my favorite memories in rockcraft.
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I assume that I was the first to climb this route in a style more sporting than that of protection from a top-rope, so I claimed the right to name the climb. I dubbed it “The Law of Identity,” although it was often difficult to explain it to those who were unacquainted with philosophy. Years later I came across visiting climbers from far away who did not know of my connection to the route, but they did know something about it, calling it “Aristotle’s Law.”
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Respect for reality and for mindfull control of the breath. Excelsior!
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-Zenwind.