How not to go rock climbing in Spain

“Necesito equpio para escalar. Es possible rentarlo? I need climbing equipment, is it possible to rent?” My high school Spanish was rusty.

The well-dressed saleslady (I’d never seen staff in heels at a sporting goods store before) wrinkled her nose at my unwashed clothes that still stank from my bus/train/ferry travel from Morocco. I was a different species from her.

“We sell climbing equipment,” she answered in perfect English. “However, one set is 300 euros.” She raised her eyebrows at me. I wanted to say, “I’ll take it!” just to prove presumptions wrong, but unfortunately, I was as poor as I looked.

Feeling defeated, I returned to the blazing Málaga sunshine. The town square looked like a cross between a fancy mall and a museum: ornate buildings surrounding a real marble outdoor plaza, complete with fountains. Wealthy and slim patrons lounged at outdoor cafes, speaking a Spanish that sounded too cold and cultivated to be the same language I spoke with friendly Guatemalans and Mexicans an ocean away. I felt their judgmental eyes on me. 

I didn’t have time to hunt for a harness at any more stores before my bus to El Chorro. Hopefully they would rent gear near the climbing.

But my problems were soon to compile. The bus stopped halfway to the park, and all passengers were told to get out. The driver looked at me like I was crazy when I cried in Spanish, “but I need to get to El Chorro!”

“Solamente en el inverieno.” Apparently, the summer was the off season for that park, so the bus didn’t go all the way there. I was dropped off in a tiny town with my too-heavy backpack.

I noticed a sign reading “Parque El Chorro, 20 km.” I began to walk.

After about a mile my parched throat felt like it was sealing shut. The chaparral landscape wavered in the heat. I felt unsteady on my feet. It was at least 100 degrees.

“Necesiatas ayuda?”

I turned to see two men in a truck full of fishing nets and tackle.

I pictured myself getting driven out to the middle of nowhere to get gutted like one of their fish. But I could also see myself dying of heat stroke by the side of the road.

“Si, gracias.”

They threw my bag in the truck bed, and I squeezed into the tiny backseat. They either didn’t speak to me, or I just didn’t hear them the whole ride, with my paranoid heart beating in my ears, my sweat plastering me to the leather seats.

They dropped me off in the center of the park and were kind enough to refuse payment. I felt guilty for suspecting them of being murderers as they waved jovially and pulled away. I cringed as I hoisted my backpack on again. My back was immediately slick with sweat, my mouth full of dust. I staggered down the dirt “main street,” eager to find a place to rest.

When I saw the first climbing hostel was boarded up, I imagined it was just a failed business. Then I saw the next was closed for the season. Then another and another. My heart pummeled my chest. Was everything closed? How stupid was I? Here I was on a climbing trip, with no climbing gear, no partner, no place to stay, no camping gear, no food or water, in a strange country where I didn’t even speak the language past a toddler’s level? If I were to die here it would be my own damn fault.

I slumped in the empty hostel parking lot. The sun shone too bright on my face but I didn’t care. I stayed there, getting depressed and sunburned for an hour. I heard the whine of a truck engine approaching. Like a maniac I sprinted into the street waving my arms. The truck stopped.

“What is the problem?” A British lady asked.

“Would you happen to know if any hostels here are open? I traveled a very long way and…” I started choking on tears.

“Poor dearie! Hmm, I think the Olive Branch might still be open. Would you like a ride?”

“I’d love one! Thank you.” I hopped up into the truck. It was clean and air-conditioned. My savior’s name was Sylvia.

“You’re going to love El Chorro. I came here a few years ago on vacation and never left. It’s beautiful and the people are so nice.

That sounded a bit too much like Hotel-California. But any uneasy feeling quickly dispersed as we pulled into the driveway of the Olive Branch. It was perched on a hillside with a sweeping view of the cliffs all around and the azure lake below.

A jolly sunburned man in his late forties came out.

“G’day, Sylvia! Who did you bring us this time?”

“This is Lauren, she is looking to do some climbing here.”

“Lovely, just lovely.” His voice came out a bouncy Australian baritone. “Lauren, we only have one room left. It is ten euro a night. Does that work?”

“Yes!” That was cheaper than I dreamed.

My host lead me through the hostel.  “Here is the beer fridge, you can help yourself and put the money in the can: one euro per liter. And here,” he took me to the lovely porch, “is the pool.”

My jaw dropped. Six tan and chiseled men lounged around the pool in Speedos.

“Amigos! This is Lauren.”

“Hey Lauren!” They waved back. The tallest and tannest man lowered his sunglasses, “Hola! Do you want to climb with us this afternoon? We have an extra harness and shoes.”

In minutes, all my problems seemed to be resolved: I had housing, food, climbing partners, and gear. But there was still one more problem.

“On belay?” I asked Alex, my handsome Dutch partner.

He looked to see that my figure eight knot was tied correctly. He pulled at my harness to make sure it was tight enough. I winced as his hand grazed my side flab. He pulled the slack out of the rope. “Belay on.”

“Climbing?” I looked back at him quizzically. He was all sinew and tanned bones. He must’ve weighed much less than my 180 pounds.

“Climb on."

I placed my hands on the wall and pulled up, then immediately slipped off. “Sorry!” I said to Alex. Cheeks flaming, I glared at the red streaked sandstone that undulated in waves above. It was smooth and polished in places, impossible to grip. It wasn’t like the gym where the good holds were all marked with colors. I had no idea where to go.

“No problem, Lauren,” Alex sang cheerfully, “try matching your hands on the hold on the right.”

I followed his beta, and the hold was solid. I kept going.

Don’t fall in front of him again, I told myself. As I pulled up above ten feet, I considered our weight difference again. If I were to fall, I would pull him off his feet. My right hand slipped off a sloper hold. Nice going, fatty! My left hand frantically clawed the wall until I could steady myself on a jug. I was panting, sweating through my long pants and t-shirt. I looked down at my lean, shirtless belayer.

“You got this, keep going,” he said. As if I weren’t truly pathetic.

I groaned as I pulled up a couple more moves. I whacked my knee on a hold. I fell. I could feel the harness depress into my flesh. I shuddered to think how my ass looked from below, like a dangling elephant. I couldn’t bear to look down at Alex, he was probably pulled up a couple of feet in the air from the weight of my fall.

“Lauren, can I tell you something?” Alex asked.

Oh no. I thought. He is going to tell me that I am taking too long, that it is uncomfortable to hold my heavy weight in his harness, that I am a failure…”

“Lauren! Climbing is a gift, not a punishment. You are doing great! Just enjoy it.”

What the fuck? Why is he being so nice to me?

“I want to see you reach the top. Take your time!”

Tears blurred the holds, but I kept going. I took a deep breath.

“It’s a gift, a gift, a gift,” I muttered to myself in between grunts, all the way to the anchor.

“Take!” I called.

I looked down. Alex beamed up at me as he pulled out the slack, sixty feet below. I smiled back, enjoying the look of how far I had come.

“Got you!”

I could trust him. I leaned back and let go.