The Cambridge Dictionary defines “playing hooky” as “staying away from school or work with no permission.” Not because you’re sick, and not because you planned ahead of time to take a personal day or vacation. Just for the heck of it—without permission. (If any kids are reading this, I do encourage you to get parental permission!) You don’t even need to call it a “mental health day.” You need no valid reason. You are free to stay home from school or work just because you want to. Scandalous, I know. It’s a healthy way to push back against the work-a-day world and prove that it doesn’t have control over you; also, it might prove to you that you don’t actually live in a total-work world or mindset.
My partner and I homeschooled the boys for many years in part so we could regularly do this— usually to go climbing, but also to define school how we wanted to. Actually homeschooling itself was kind of like playing hooky all the time, daily going against society’s educational construct, reinforcing for ourselves that learning can be fun and happen in places not-school. I wish we would have continued to play hooky regularly once the kids entered high school outside of the home. Unfortunately, we tried to stick to the rules.
In retrospect, I think that families with kids in school should play hooky more than once a year. A Friday here, or a Monday there. Or heck, why not a Wednesday? There’s nothing better to break up the doldrums of a school- or work-week than spontaneously taking a Wednesday off to have fun together. Sleep in. Go to a movie. Go climbing. Whatever you want. Even better, go on a two week vacation when there isn’t a holiday from school. Everyone will freak out. What fun!
Related posted from the archives: Climbing Should Be Fun
Brian and I played hooky and went climbing just last Monday. The weather forecast was, as they say, almost too good to be true. Low 70s and dry in the middle of August? Yes, please. On Sunday night we drove down and stayed at a campground just outside of Fayetteville, WV, the Arrowhead Bike Farm. Temps were cool enough for a campfire. There were hummingbirds frolicking and diving amongst the bushes bordering our site. The sky was deep and rimmed with giant billowy thunderheads. I went to sleep listening to the laughter of coyotes. In the middle of the night, I woke up to the sound of owls hooting to each other. It was magical.
On Monday morning, we warmed up nearby at a climbing area called Butcher’s Branch at Kaymoor, and then headed over to White Wall to do Moon Child Posse, an 11c I’ve never done. Brian has an injured shoulder from mountain biking (this is why I do not mountain bike). He followed me up some of the routes on top rope, but I was on my own getting the rope up on the climbs I wanted to do. This is not unusual. I can hold my own out there in the lead climbing world, and it was nice to have him top rope the climbs I put up for a change. Finally, the tables have been turned! Haha!
It reminded me of when I began climbing back in 1994, and I could only top rope the easy climbs that he would do, and barely. But for a long time now, I haven’t had to rely on him, completely, to climb what I want to. I do have to admit, though, that I felt a little uncertain without him climbing on par with me last Monday, or as an optional back up. I was really, really on my own, and still absurdly wondered, What if I can’t get to the top? Which is evidence of residue left over from the mind of a younger me. Of course I could get to the top.
The whole day was kind of a “trip down memory lane,” only the lanes were approach trails and rock climbs that we have done a thousand times over the years. Butcher’s Branch was one of two main areas we frequented for the first two years of my climbing life, so I'm not completely exaggerating when I say that we’ve been there, done that close to a thousand times. At least hundreds of times. At all different ages. Without kids. With kids. The first couple of years, we would climb every weekend at Butcher’s Branch one day and Summersville Lake the other day. These are the two areas where I learned to lead climb— to go up a route first and put the rope up— the two areas where I probably cried the most tears in my whole life, not from getting hurt but because I would get so scared. I cried from shame, too, for giving up and not going to the top of something when the fear was too great.
Related post from the archives: Is Climbing Outside Important?
So last Monday, I was caught in a reverie as we were hiking around, thinking about how I was 21 years old when we first started going there, hiking those trails and climbing those climbs. That’s less than half my age now, as I have entered my sixth decade (thanks so much to my friend who reminded me of this earlier this year— not my fifth). I still knew the bends and the curves of the paths, where the tree roots and the collections of rocks to scamper across were, where it was safe to place my feet.
And the routes felt that familiar, too. I remembered where all of the holds were and what they would feel like even before I touched them, how hard I had to pull to get between them. This was true about the 10a warm up that I had done over and over again those beginning years, first on top rope when I was a weak newb, and then learning to lead climb as I gained strength. It was not a warm up back in those days. I reluctantly and with much drama learned to take lead falls on this 10a and its neighbor at Butcher’s Branch.
Last Monday it felt so familiar to be breathless and scared on this warm-up, wondering if I would fall, wondering if those little tiny feet would hold my weight or if my shoes would just skate off. I was encountering my younger self, only I didn’t have Brian ready to finish something I was too scared to go to the top of. But I didn’t need him to, even if I was truly scared. I’m strong on my own, way stronger than that young 21-year-old Jen, and really, truly, the climbing is easy. Remember Jen? It’s just a 10a.
Hiking is really where I felt my current age. I walked slowly on the trails because I didn't want to do something stupid, slip, and break a hip or a wrist. My hips and knees and ankles just aren't as limber anymore. I don’t move with the same ease that I did in my 20s and 30s. Plus we don't go climbing all the time and haven't been out since June, so I just wasn’t practiced at carrying the weight of my pack on uneven terrain, sometimes steep terrain.
I was also out of practice on making hard moves on a new climb, one that I didn’t know. I experienced the typical battle with my weak lead-head while I made my way up Moon Child Posse, the 11c I had never done before. Moon Child Posse was the best thing for me to work on, though. Doing harder 11s is good for my lead-head, because 11s at the New River Gorge are not “gimmes,” by any means, but they also aren’t at my limit, difficulty-wise. They require commitment and strength, even for a seasoned climber— especially when your stronger climbing partner is limited to top roping— but are also totally doable.
“A weak lead-head” means that I was scared, didn’t want to commit, was slow to move forwards, or, up higher off the ground. My heart was racing the whole time, even when the climbing was easy. It’s important to get good at climbing through these physical responses to emotions. When I got to the hardest part— the crux— of the climb, I found that I had completely forgotten how to pull hard on bad holds. The move was barely above my last bolt where the rope was clipped in, so I wouldn’t have fallen very far even if I did fall. But I just couldn’t make myself do the moves. It’s like standing at the edge of the high dive at a pool trying to convince yourself to jump. I sat on the rope, as we say, and hung out there for a while. I tried the moves a few more times, and nope, it was not going to happen. I was too scared. It felt too hard.
Here is where, if Brian had been healthy, I would have asked for him to go up and give it a go. Then I could try again on top rope later. But thankfully, that wasn’t an option, and I had to rely on myself.
What I did next, I will not try to explain in great detail.
In sport climbing— what we call clipping bolts instead of placing our own gear into cracks and crevices and openings in the rock— there are ways of getting the rope up ahead of you without climbing up there. It’s complicated, but its safe, don’t worry. So skipping ahead, once I had the rope clipped into the next bolt above me, I was able to figure out the hard moves without the fear of falling. (I actually figured out that I had to make a bigger move to a better hold and not use the terrible ones afterall.) Some people think this is cheating, but I beg to differ. It’s all part of the work I need to do to make my weak lead-head stronger. The hope is that perhaps the next time, I wouldn’t be so scared.
And that is what happened. After resting for a bit, I climbed the route a second time so that I could try to send it clean, without any hanging or falling. When I arrived at the difficult section, I knew exactly what to do, I didn’t hesitate, and I didn’t fall. In sport climbing, we call this a “red-point,” when you have tried the route more than once, even practiced it, and then finally sent it without any falls.
Ah, but this small victory makes me want to climb more!
Now we just have to hold tight through this next little heat wave and wait for some more good weather to roll in so we can play hooky again. Or, maybe, we’ll behave and go for a weekend instead.
This was also published over at Pull-ups in the Basement, a Substack by Jen Hemphill.
