I can still remember the snapping sound the tree root made as I pulled on it...

I was in the Avon Gorge, above the tennis courts and toilets (are they still there?), and presumably only thirty foot up, but in my defence I was wearing bendy walking boots (not ideal for limestone), a hawser rope knotted around my waist and a couple of tape slings, hand tied, decorated with old brass nuts, whose inner threads had been more or less carefully filed out a few weeks before.

Yes. 1969. An early university climbing club trip, and time for me to be a leader. It was the start of my second term: a time of great ambitions, of marvellous adventures to come, all fed by books, dreams and pub anecdotes. So I started off up what could have only been a Severe, if that, armed with all the current paraphernalia and the fruits of my own ignorance. Still, things seemed to go alright until I began to run out of jugs and foot-jams, so that somewhere above my second not entirely bomb-proof runner, I began to lose momentum and gain fear. A few furtive moves upwards further increased the corrosive ratio between these two irreconcilables. I was very aware of the space beneath me. But just above, tantalisingly out of reach, protruded a small but eminently grabbable tree root, a relic of the many bushes and shrubs that had once thrived on the cliffs in pre climbing days. I was well used to tree roots: my first climbs had been at Harrisons, where grabbing not-rock when topping out was almost obligatory.

After a long period of nervous reflection, I summed up the last of my resolve and made the hazardous move up, and straining at the limits of my reach, triumphantly grabbed the beckoning root. At which point came the snapping sound.

That was it for me: my determination was also broken, and for a few fearful moments I could imagine the snapping of bones as I hit the deck. Heart in mouth, I squirmed back down to my previous resting place, where I clung in quiet desperation.

Eventually I became aware of a voice below: John.

“Are you alright?”
“Not really. No.”
“Would you like a top rope?”
I didn't have to think about this for too long:
“I think I would. Yes” (Oh please...)

In my peripheral vision I watched as John sped up the descent route to my right. I listened to my breathing, fast and taut, tried to still the shaking in my calves, and thankfully soon a rope wriggled down to me, a carabiner thoughtfully attached to its' knotted end. Moments later I was up; the root had held, just, but it didn't feel like it would have coped with the sort of desperate hauling on it my leading would have needed. I gulped my thanks to John, collected myself and my rope, and we made our way back down.

I trudged across to the Transit, rather dazed, and a Sunday car driver, one of several out just to watch epics such as mine, leered at me as I passed, and queried:

“Well, was it worth it?”

I made no reply, perplexed. It wasn't until half an hour later that I came up with a sharp put-down (isn't life like that?). And it was a day or to later before I decided that, yes, it had been worth it, it had been a lesson in survival, and in caution, equipment and resolve. I'd been repelled, not defeated. Next time, next time would be better. And it was.

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Write approximately 500 words about your first outdoor lead and supply an image of you climbing (not necessarily your first lead) and submit to: http://www.ukclimbing.com/articles/send.html

The competition will be judged by us here at DMM and the winner announced on Monday 24th December and will win a complete DMM rack worth £500.

But more than that, everyone who submits an essay will receive a spot prize.

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