This is the tale of a non-athlete’s experiential learning adventure in the art of rock climbing.
Perusing the Plateau’s unforgettable outdoor experiences featured by Trailborn Highlands and considering how much we treasure hosting the tallest crag on the East Coast—Laurel Knob—I was immediately enthused by the recommendation of a rock climb.
Although Forrest Stavish, owner and guide of Fox Mountain Guides, did not take my initial call, his reason was rock-solid—he was climbing Whiteside Mountain, the Plateau’s other revered cliff, which I admire from the serenity of our home at its base. The synchronicity of that first occurrence set the tone for what was and, hopefully, is to come.
Even Forrest’s name speaks to his nature. He climbs, shares that passion with others, and records it in words and images—scaling both rocks and storytelling.
Climbing a rock face was never on my bucket list, though the forests, lakes, rivers, and cliffs of Creation have always beckoned me. But heights? I was scolded for climbing trees as a child, chastised for scaling fire towers as a teen, and talked down from roof duty as a shaky-handed assistant to my beloved—all spirit-bruising moments.
Donna Clements
On a crystal-clear day, under polka-dotted blue skies, my adventure began. My beloved, our trusty dog Sadie, and I met up with Forrest and head guide Dan Riethmuller, fresh off a Teton climb. Their quiet exuberance set a reflective tone: it can take a moment or a lifetime to absorb the emotional weight of ascending and descending such immensity.
At the base of a shiny-faced Highlands mountain, they explained both physical and psychological mechanics. I heard “risk” and “safety,” but their words were drowned out by my internal chorus of fear and doubt.
The gear was simple: helmet, waist and bottom strap, specialized shoes, and a rope. That was it—no gloves, parachute, mattress, or escape hatch. With Forrest cheering from the summit and Dan beside me as my belayer, it was just me and the rock.
The creativity of climbing took me by surprise. It’s not like ascending a climbing wall or egg-crate mattress—it’s a binary dance with nature. Your foot goes here or there, your hands grasp this nook or that curve. Options narrow. Trust becomes mandatory.
My biggest obstacle was trust. My strength and focus wavered. My body resisted climbing; my mind doubted every foothold and handhold. What if there were no more options?
Yet I loved every moment—until I didn’t. That was the agreement. When I gave the sign, they responded. No judgment. And astonishingly, descent was more stressful than ascent. When they said, “Let go of the rope—sit back and enjoy the ride,” I looked Dan in the eye and said, “I can’t. I don’t trust you.” He took it with grace, and soon I was back on solid ground.
I’m better for the experience. Grateful to Forrest, Dan, and Fox Mountain Guides for their integrity and inspiration. Grateful for our majestic mountains and the Creator of it all.
Did I climb far enough to call myself a rock climber? Did I conquer fear? Did I embarrass my dog? Was I graceful? These remain playful questions.
Will more rock-climbing adventures lie ahead? Observing Forrest dance on Whiteside’s icy north face this winter? Maybe. Will he archive these stories into books? Hopefully.
And yes—some truths deserve to remain hanging.
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