Route: Mohammed the Mad Monk of Moorside Home for Mental Misfits. Very Severe, 4c.
Location: Denham quarry, near Blackburn. Lancashire

There are times when I close my eyes that I can be there. I can see the long thin emerald green stalks of grass stretching beyond the tufts of heather, to billow aimlessly in the short gusts of wind that roam this quarried hole. I can feel the rock, quite literally underneath my fingers. It's very texture. The rounded edge of a crack, too shallow to take a runner, but just deep enough to take the tips of my fingers is enough to seduce me. Enough to move me further up and further away from the things that no longer matter as my world narrows and constricts into movement scarcely above the beckoning void. The narrow strand of rope that connects me physically to that other world becomes an illusion, for in reality I am alone. Only staccato bursts of “watch me” break the tension, transmitting down the rope to die in a fading drone through the stitch plate. I am fifteen years old and it is nineteen eighty three. I have taken the day off school and cycled the fourteen miles or so to get here because I am obsessed. The old, faded hawser and assorted antiquated nuts and slings nestling in my rucksack belonged to my father and another era. The light hearted banter and superficial ego of the morning, now a distant memory.

Confidence is transparent within a sea of fear. My foot betrays me, tapping out the truth, transmitting my inner feelings for all to consume. It is Morse code to the initiated that holds the runner- less rope. The umbilical cord that connects us begins to pull, screaming at me to surrender, to submit and release my fragile hold on life. It is almost palpable and momentarily I am resigned to it. But “it” doesn't happen and I find myself once again amidst the soft grasses. I have tasted life. The coarse dark grain of that wall now beneath me, my vista explodes in a rush of colour and perspective. This body that clawed and scraped those final few feet lies motionless under a June sky. Eyes smarting, a T shirt streaked with the greasy marks of frantic desperate fingers, and a mouth too arid to call out “safe” are my talisman. The day is won, but only just.

Does any of this sound familiar to you? Strike a chord that resonates deep within? Well, to all those who have passed this way before and for those who have yet to come, a fifteen year old schoolboy salutes you.

www.dmmclimbing.com

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.

More details HERE