I knew nothing about traditional climbing when I arrived in this country. And then one day I needed to balance the passionate focus I had for my job with something that would require as much concentration. Climbing again was the obvious choice. I liked the idea of a more purist approach; more Alpine, I thought. I had to have a go.

It happened on a sunny spring weekend in North Wales; I was meeting some climbing poets for the first time and happily seconding. I was offered to lead a VDiff. So there I was, loaded with expensive equipment I could hardly name properly, belayed by someone I had met 24 hours earlier, although I had read a bit of his poetry! It felt delightfully unreasonable.

Soon my mood changed though: I was choosing the wrong size of wires, once, twice... I was also rapidly getting tired, hanging about for too long, to the point of losing patience and climbing a little bit higher to that crack, there, that looked so much more appealing. I stopped at the top of a slab; a seriously polished slab. I looked down: if I fell I would slide for at least 10m.

I remember pressing the whole of my body against the rock, as if it might sympathise. I also closed my eyes to dismiss the light stroboscopic, harsh grey. Staying immobile also stopped the menacing chiming of the gear. Someone was saying something at the bottom of the crag. His voice was calm, I noticed. Perhaps I was panicking for nothing. Perhaps that dark hole up there was not the smirk of the Gribbin but a comfortable belay stance. How far was it? It wasn't far so I decided there and then that I was not going to die. Not yet, not with people I hardly knew and who would not be able to contact my relatives!

So I climbed on, as fast as possible. I was escaping really. I laughed when I reached the protective niche and curled as far away from the edge as I could. It felt good and soothing to pull the rope up, get warm, be responsible for someone else's life. The praise of the belay, the kind finger-wagging at my placements, whatever, I was chuffed anyway, I hadn't died.

Later, I think I seconded a couple more routes. Moving on rock was still smooth, recognisable fun. A state of (fearful) grace really. We also sat in the grass to eat something. I said very little; I was trying to take it all in.

Traditional leading felt like an intense, condensed version of life: demanding, physical, spiritual at times, with the possible bonus of a budding friendship. Driving back that evening, all the way down to Sussex, I knew I would do it again: in Britain I would do like the British and place my own gear, for the pleasure of moving on rock, the thrill of controlling my fears, for the little supplement of soul. No less.

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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.

More details HERE