Walsh Family Universe V2

Chapter 65
New Territory

Day three at Pine Ridge started the same as day two—Brett's pot-and-spoon alarm, the scramble for the bathroom, breakfast in the dining hall. But the schedule board showed a different afternoon activity rotation.

"Today after lunch," Brett announced at breakfast, "Eagles are doing rock climbing. We've got the wall from two to four."

Ash felt his stomach drop slightly. Rock climbing. The one activity he'd been quietly hoping to avoid.

Baseball? He was good at baseball. Swimming? He'd been swimming for years. Canoeing? He'd figured it out quickly. Capture the flag? Pure instinct and athleticism.

But rock climbing? He'd never done it. Had no idea if he'd be good at it. No muscle memory to draw from, no previous experience in either life.

"You okay?" Lucas asked, noticing his expression.

"Yeah, just... I've never rock climbed before."

"Me neither. It'll be fun though. How hard can it be?"

Baseball clinic that morning went even better than the first day. Ryan had them working on situational plays—knowing where to throw based on outs and runners, communication between infielders, backing up bases.

Ash was in his element. Reading the play, making the right decision, executing cleanly. This made sense. This was comfortable.

"Walsh, you're reading these plays like you've been doing it for years," Ryan said after Ash successfully completed a complex rundown play. "Your baseball IQ is really high for your age."

"Thanks."

They finished with a scrimmage—infielders versus outfielders, rotating through batting. Ash got two hits and made three defensive plays without an error. Walked off the field feeling confident, competent, in control.

Swimming was equally solid. Coach Dmitri had them practicing relay exchanges—diving starts, underwater streamlining, quick turns. Ash's competitive group was preparing for the inter-camp meet next week, and the intensity was ramping up.

"Walsh, your underwaters are getting stronger," Coach Dmitri observed. "You're staying down for four, five strokes now. That's where you'll win races."

By lunch, Ash was riding high on that familiar feeling of being good at things. Of his body doing exactly what he wanted it to do. Of competence and mastery.

Then they finished eating, and Brett herded the Eagles toward the rock climbing wall.

The wall was intimidating up close—thirty feet tall, different colored holds jutting out at various angles, multiple routes marked by colored tape. At the top, a rope system with an instructor belaying from the ground.

About twenty boys from various cabins were gathered. The instructor—a man named Coach Finch in his mid-twenties with impressive forearm muscles—stood at the base of the wall.

"Welcome to rock climbing!" he said cheerfully. "How many of you have climbed before?"

Three hands went up. Ash's stayed down.

"Perfect. So for most of you, this is completely new. That's okay. Everyone starts somewhere." Coach Finch pointed to the wall. "Rock climbing is about problem-solving with your body. It's not about being strong—though that helps. It's about reading the route, finding the right holds, using your legs more than your arms, and trusting the equipment."

He demonstrated the harness system, how the rope worked, the belay commands. Then had them pair up—one climber, one belayer, with Coach Finch supervising each attempt.

"We'll start with the easiest route—the green one. It's rated 5.6, which is beginner-friendly. The goal isn't to reach the top on your first try. The goal is to get comfortable with the wall, with heights, with trusting the rope."

Ash watched as the first few climbers went up. Some made it halfway before getting stuck. One kid from another cabin made it all the way to the top, but he was clearly experienced. Most struggled with finding holds, with the weird feeling of being off the ground, with the awkward body positions required.

"You want to go first or should I?" Lucas asked.

"You go. I'll watch."

Lucas got harnessed up, Coach Finch double-checking everything. He approached the wall, grabbed the first holds, started climbing.

He made it about ten feet before getting stuck. Couldn't figure out where to put his foot next, arms starting to shake from holding on.

"You're too focused on your arms," Coach Finch called up. "Push with your legs. Find the foot hold to your right—yeah, that one. Now push up with your legs, not pull with your arms."

Lucas adjusted, pushed with his legs, made it another few feet. Then got stuck again, this time unable to find the next hand hold.

"Take your time. Scan the wall. There's a good hold about two feet to your left."

Lucas hung there for a moment, clearly frustrated. Then called down, "I'm done. Can I come down?"

"Of course. Just let go and sit back in the harness. I've got you."

Lucas let go, the rope catching him, Coach Finch lowering him smoothly to the ground.

"Good first attempt," he said. "You made it about fifteen feet. That's solid for a first timer."

"It's harder than it looks."

"It always is."

Then it was Ash's turn.

Coach Finch helped him into the harness, showed him how to tie in to the rope, went through the belay commands. "Climbing," Ash said, as instructed.

"Climb on," Coach Finch replied, holding the rope.

Ash approached the wall. Put his hands on the first holds—rough plastic molded to look like rock, various shapes and sizes. Pulled himself up onto the wall.

The first few moves were okay. Straightforward. Holds that were obvious, feet that made sense.

Then he got about eight feet up and suddenly nothing made sense.

Where was the next hand hold? The obvious ones were too far away. The close ones were tiny, barely big enough for fingertips. His feet were on holds that felt secure but he couldn't figure out where to move them next.

His forearms started burning. He was gripping too hard, he knew that intellectually, but couldn't figure out how to hold on without gripping hard.

"Use your legs," Coach Finch called. "You're pulling too much with your arms. Find a foot hold and push."

Ash scanned the wall. Saw a hold for his right foot, maybe. Tried to reach it. Couldn't quite get there without letting go with his left hand, which felt terrifying.

His arms were really shaking now. The burn in his forearms was intense.

"Take your time," Coach Finch said, his voice patient. "You're not going to fall. I've got you on belay. Worst case, you sit back in the harness and I lower you down."

But Ash didn't want to sit back in the harness. Didn't want to quit. Didn't want to be the kid who barely made it eight feet up.

He tried again to reach the foot hold. Got his toe on it. Tried to shift his weight. His left hand slipped.

For a brief, terrifying moment, he was falling.

Then the rope caught him, the harness digging into his thighs and waist, Coach Finch holding him steady.

"I've got you," he said calmly. "You're safe. Want to try again or come down?"

Ash hung there in the harness, eight feet off the ground, arms burning, frustration and embarrassment flooding through him.

"Come down," he said quietly.

Coach Finch lowered him smoothly. When his feet touched the ground, he was smiling—not mockingly, just encouragingly.

"Good first try. You made it eight feet, which is better than some people manage. And you learned what happens when you fall—nothing bad. The rope catches you."

"I couldn't figure out where to go next."

"That's the hardest part. Reading the route. Seeing the sequence of moves before you make them." He gestured to the wall. "You want to try again? Sometimes the second attempt goes better because you know what to expect."

Ash looked at the wall. At the eight feet he'd managed. At the holds that had defeated him.

Part of him wanted to walk away. To stick with things he was good at. Baseball and swimming and activities that made sense to his body.

But another part—the part that had given a graduation speech about trying new things even when they're scary—knew he should try again.

"Yeah. I'll try again."

This time, knowing what to expect, he got to the same spot. Eight feet up, forearms burning, looking for the next move. But this time he forced himself to actually look. To scan the wall systematically instead of panicking.

There—a hold he'd missed before, slightly higher and to the right. Awkward to reach, but possible.

He shifted his weight, reached for it, got his hand on it. It was a terrible hold—barely a bump, really—but enough to take some weight off his other arm.

Now a foot placement. He spotted one, tested it with his toe, committed to it.

Nine feet. Ten feet.

His arms were screaming. He couldn't go much farther. But he'd made it higher than last time.

"Nice adjustment," Coach Finch called. "You found that side-pull. Good problem solving."

Ash made it to about twelve feet before his arms gave out completely. Sat back in the harness, let Coach Finch lower him down.

"Much better," he said. "You added four feet. And more importantly, you problem-solved. You didn't just try the same thing again—you looked for different holds, different sequences. That's what climbing is about."

Ash's arms felt like jelly. His fingers ached. He was sweaty and frustrated and not enjoying this at all.

But also... he'd done better the second time. Had figured something out. Had pushed past the initial failure.

He watched other kids climb. Some did better than him. Some did worse. Garrett made it about six feet before panicking and asking to come down. Oliver, surprisingly, made it nearly to the top—his height giving him advantage, able to reach holds other kids couldn't.

"You've definitely done this before," Coach Finch said to Oliver.

"No, first time. I'm just tall." But Oliver looked pleased.

Kevin and Max both struggled, neither making it past ten feet. But they tried multiple times, determined.

After everyone had gone at least twice, Coach Finch switched them to the blue route—slightly harder, rated 5.7.

"Only attempt this if you felt comfortable on the green route," he said. "No pressure. The goal is challenge, not discouragement."

Oliver tried it, made it halfway. Garrett declined. Kevin tried and got about eight feet.

Lucas looked at Ash. "Want to try?"

"I barely made it twelve feet on the easy route."

"So? I barely made it fifteen. But I want to try the harder one. Just to see."

They tried it together—first Lucas, then Ash.

Lucas made it about ten feet before the holds got too difficult. Ash made it eight feet, same as the green route, but the moves felt completely different. More technical. Requiring more thought.

By the time the two hours ended, Ash was exhausted in a completely different way than baseball made him tired. His forearms were destroyed. His fingers were sore. His core ached from the awkward positions.

But more than that, his brain was tired. Climbing required constant problem-solving. Constant adjustment. It wasn't instinctive like baseball—it required thought, planning, trial and error.

"Same time tomorrow," Brett announced as they unclipped from their harnesses. "We'll work on the wall again, try to improve our distances."

Walking back to the cabin, Lucas was quiet.

"That was humbling," he finally said.

"Yeah."

"I mean, I'm good at baseball. Good at swimming. But climbing? I sucked at climbing."

"Same."

"But also..." Lucas paused. "I kind of want to get better at it? Like, it annoyed me that I couldn't figure it out. I want to try again tomorrow and actually make progress."

Ash felt the same way. Frustrated by the difficulty, but also intrigued. Wanting to solve the puzzle of it.

"Yeah. Me too."

"We should watch some of the experienced kids," Lucas suggested. "See how they do it. Maybe we can learn something."

During rest period, instead of napping or playing cards, Ash lay on his bunk thinking about climbing.

The way his forearms had burned. The confusion of not knowing where to go next. The brief moment of falling before the rope caught him.

The frustration of being bad at something.

He was so used to being good at physical things now. Baseball came naturally. Swimming was instinctive. Even canoeing he'd picked up quickly.

But climbing had exposed something: he wasn't good at everything. He could still struggle. Could still fail at something on his first attempt.

In his previous life, he'd been bad at most physical things. Had avoided sports entirely because being in that wrong body made every physical activity feel terrible.

Now he had the right body. Was athletic. Coordinated. Strong.

But apparently that didn't translate to everything.

Climbing required different skills. Different thinking. Different strengths than he'd developed.

And that was... okay? Maybe?

"You thinking about the wall?" Lucas asked from his bunk.

"Yeah."

"Me too. I can't stop thinking about where I got stuck. Like, there had to be a way past that point, but I couldn't see it."

"Coach Finch said it's about reading the route. Seeing the sequence before you climb it."

"Yeah, but how do you do that when you're new? When you don't know what's possible?"

"Practice, I guess."

They were quiet for a moment.

"It's weird being bad at something," Lucas said. "Like, I'm good at baseball. Really good. And swimming. But climbing made me feel like... I don't know. Like a beginner."

"That's because we are beginners."

"I know. But it's still weird. Uncomfortable."

Ash understood exactly what Lucas meant. The discomfort of incompetence. Of trying hard and still failing. Of your body not doing what you wanted it to do.

He'd spent years building competence. Getting good at sports. Proving he could be athletic, capable, strong.

And now here was something he wasn't good at. Something that required starting from scratch.

"Coach Finch said most people don't reach the top on their first day," Lucas continued. "That it takes time to build the strength and technique."

"Yeah."

"So I guess we shouldn't feel bad about it."

"But we do anyway."

"Yeah. We do."

Dinner conversation at the Eagles table was dominated by climbing.

"My forearms are dead," Garrett said, flexing his hands experimentally. "I can barely hold my fork."

"Same," Kevin agreed. "How is climbing harder than baseball? Baseball doesn't make my arms hurt like this."

"Different muscles," Brett explained. "Climbing uses your grip strength and forearms in ways baseball doesn't. You'll be sore tomorrow, but it gets easier as you build that strength."

"Oliver crushed it," Max said, the first time Ash had heard him voluntarily speak. "You made it so high."

Oliver shrugged, but looked pleased. "I just could reach stuff other people couldn't. It's not skill, it's just height."

"Height is an advantage in climbing," Brett said. "But so is technique. And problem-solving. And not panicking when you're off the ground. You did well."

After dinner, they had free time before the evening activity. Ash and Lucas ended up at the basketball courts with several other boys from different cabins.

Basketball was comfortable. Familiar. Ash could dribble, pass, shoot. His body knew what to do without thinking about it.

They played three-on-three, switching teams each game. Ash's team won twice. He made several good shots, set up his teammates, played solid defense.

This felt right. This felt natural.

"You're good at basketball," one of the other kids said—a tall boy from Cabin 5. "You play on a team?"

"No, just rec league basketball in winter. Mostly I play baseball."

"You should play team basketball. You've got the height and the skills."

Later, walking back to the cabin for evening activity, Lucas said, "That felt good after the wall. Actually being good at something again."

"Yeah."

"But we're still going to try harder tomorrow on the climb, right?"

"Yeah. We are."

Because that was the thing. He could stick with what he was good at—baseball and swimming and basketball. The comfortable things.

Or he could push into uncomfortable territory. Try something new. Fail at it, then try again.

Like he'd said in his graduation speech. Like he'd done by coming to camp in the first place.

Growth happened outside comfort zones.

Even when your comfort zone was being a naturally athletic eleven-year-old boy who was good at most sports.

That night, after lights out, Ash lay in his bunk with his forearms still aching.

He thought about the wall. About getting stuck eight feet up. About the frustration of not being able to figure out the next move.

About trying again and making it four feet higher.

About watching Oliver succeed where he'd struggled, and feeling both envious and genuinely happy for him.

About Lucas admitting it was humbling. About them both agreeing to try harder tomorrow.

In his previous life, he would have quit after the first failure. Would have decided climbing wasn't for him. Would have stuck with things that didn't expose his inadequacies.

But that was the old Ash. The Ash who avoided things because his body felt wrong, because trying and failing just highlighted how disconnected he felt from physical existence.

This Ash—Noam—had a body that worked. That could do things. That could learn new things, even if they were hard at first.

He didn't have to be good at everything. He could struggle. Could be a beginner. Could fail and try again.

That was okay. That was normal. That was what growing up looked like.

"My name is Ash," he whispered into the darkness. "I'm thirty-three years old. I'm eleven years old. Today I was really good at baseball and really bad at rock climbing. Today I learned that having an athletic body doesn't mean being good at everything. Today I got frustrated and tried again anyway. Today I was just another beginner trying something new."

He paused.

"Tomorrow I'll try to make it to fifteen feet. Or maybe I won't. But I'll try."

Four thousand, seven hundred and three days to go.

But tomorrow: another baseball clinic where he'd excel. Another climbing session where he'd struggle. Both things existing together. Both things being okay.

Excellence and incompetence. Mastery and beginner's confusion. Both parts of the same person.

He fell asleep with sore forearms and a quiet determination to get better at the thing that had humbled him.

Growing up meant being good at some things and bad at others.

And that was perfectly fine.

One humbling rock wall at a time.