I gasped up each flight of stairs in an absurdly narrow stairwell lined with gaudy burgundy carpet and matching Italian damask wallpaper. At over 4,000 feet of elevation, I was shamefully out of breath.
At the top of the fourth flight of stairs was a tall man with liver spots and white hair, looming with his arms crossed and a permanent frown on his face. “James?” I put on the most cheerful tone of voice I could while trying to force oxygen into my lungs.
He nodded, then scanned me up and down from head to toe, squinting his eyes in disappointment.
“You don’t look like a climber.” he scowled.
I fished for a response. Then, I remembered what I was wearing: a mid-length floral skirt, sneakers, and a white t-shirt. My outdoor pants, Patagonia jacket, and technical long-sleeve shirt were all packed away in my suitcase. “I’m just getting into town from a wedding brunch in Florence!” I blurted, hoping the explanation for my less-than-adventurous outfit would soften his mood. He didn’t flinch. We stared awkwardly at each other for a few moments before heading back down the stairs for our first meal together.
A month earlier, James and I had a chance encounter on the internet. “Climbing partner wanted in the Dolomites” was the topic of my post on mountainproject.com. I received a few emails from people who either had no climbing experience or couldn’t make the dates I proposed. Then, I got one from someone named James Stewart. He was 71 years old and had been climbing since he was a teenager. I got a feeling he was probably competent enough to keep me from falling to my death on my upcoming solo trip to Italy.
We met for the first time in the garish brown and burgundy stairwell of our hotel. We’d be climbing at least three classic peaks together in the Dolomites in the coming week. James and I would be sharing a room in order to cut down our costs. Sure, he was a complete stranger. Well, not completely — we had talked on the phone before.
Once, as he shot rapid-fire questions through the other end of the phone for about ten minutes.
“What grades do you climb? Ok, I’ll bring the pro. You bring the rope, I hate traveling with rope. You’re sure you’ll be there? Good, then I’ll see you in Cortina.”
Our first climb took us up two breezy pitches to the second tower summit of Cinque Torri. Making small talk as we discreetly tested each other's competencies, we got to know each other's climbing abilities and safety systems on the route. James and I enjoyed a beautiful day of climbing, despite his crotchety attitude. I learned not to expect the same exuberance from him as I was accustomed to with my climbing partners back home.
On the second day of climbing, we tackled Sass de Stria, which translates in English to “the Mountain of the Witch.” The rock here literally sparkles when it catches the clear sunlight. James and I swapped leads for 8 pitches of run-out, European limestone climbing.
The final pitch to the summit was my lead. As the steep, solid rock turned to chossy, crumbling ledges, I knew I was reaching the top. The blue sky filled up more of my field of vision, and I gained speed as I began to walk, not climb, to the peak.
An ancient iron cross marks the summit of the Witches Mountain. As I turned the corner to approach it, I stopped to take a breath and looked around me. Sass de Stria is a relatively low peak, centrally located in the Dolomite mountain range, and offers one of the best views in the area. I could see the low valleys surrounding me and faraway peaks imposing in the distance.
As the ground flattened out and my most immediate safety concerns dissipated, I built an anchor on a boulder near the cross to belay my partner up the last pitch. I called down for James to start climbing and was grateful no one was around to see the stupid grin on my face.
The grin took life and soon became full-on laughter. I couldn’t believe I had actually done it.
I had competently led my share of pitches on two alpine routes in another country. With a stranger. The ex-boyfriend I had relied on in previous years to take the lead wasn't there for me to fall back on. The hours I had spent practicing my belay transitions on my friend's front porch had paid off.
When was the last time I welcomed the sight of the cross? I couldn’t think of one. As a child, I had been forced into the faith by fanatic North Korean refugees who needed to believe something, anything, in order to survive. Even as immigrants to the USA, the belief had a way of sticking around. The cross had never been anything more than a symbol of oppression in my past, but here, it liberated me.
James and I took a moment to soak in the grand beauty of the Dolomites before hiking the trail down to the parking lot. We walked by trenches dug by soldiers during World War I. I was reminded that every mountain holds so many untold stories.
We had one more day of climbing ahead of us, and it would be our longest and hardest route yet. We questioned whether or not it was worth the effort but decided to go for it.
The morning had its hiccups. James insisted we had arrived at the base of our route when we were an hour’s hike away from the actual climb. Nothing I could say could convince him otherwise, so I walked slowly behind, knowing we would ultimately have to turn around. After retracing our steps across the trailless rocky terrain, we found our route.
A third of the way through the climb, my partner realized he hated dirty chimney climbing and asked me to lead every pitch to the top. I obliged.
The peak of the mountain was crumbling away, and I couldn’t find a good option to build a solid anchor. I tied myself off to a small boulder surrounded by alpine grass but couldn’t trust my weight on it. I backed myself up against the rock and dug my heels in.
The best anchor in this situation was going to have to be me. Anything else on the mountain was too likely to break off. I looked at the meager anchor I had built and hoped it would hold against the unexpected.
Luckily for us, climbing that pitch wasn’t technically challenging. There was definitely potential for an accident, but James’ decades of experience kept him calm. After one more short but burly pitch, we were at the summit.
"Have you ever scree-skied?" James’ dry voice barked at me as we stared down the long descent made of talus and gravel. My lightweight shoes weren't made for sliding down the mountain one foot at a time, but it was our only option. Hours later, we arrived back at our hotel, exhausted.
After three days of climbing alpine routes together, I wondered if the old man still thought I didn’t look like a climber.
James poured himself his nightly glass of scotch into a clear plastic cup from the hotel bathroom. This time, he took the second glass and poured one for me, too.
Did it matter if I looked like a “climber?” In the end, I don’t think it did.
What mattered is that we had climbed, and we had survived.
"Cheers," he said with a hint of a smile as he handed me the drink. "You did good, kid."
Note: The name James Stewart is fictional. The experience is not.
Wow!