Conquering my fears with indoor rock climbing in Winnipeg

Palms sweaty, knees weak, arms feel heavy. Like Eminem, but no belly full of mom's spaghetti. Approach the wall, kids watching with eyes so wide. Thinking of excuses to quit, like the van unlocked outside. Can’t back out, the moment’s here. Wipe my hands on my pants, swallow my fear.

Let’s get this out of the way right off the top: I’m not a big fan of heights. It's not a debilitating fear per se—I willingly board airplanes and enjoy amusement park rides—but it sometimes impacts my daily life in unexpected ways. Take my recent attempt to paint a 20-foot wall in my hallway, for example: I got all the gear together, borrowed a massive ladder, donned by shockingly tattered painting garb and psyched myself up, only to call it quits after climbing just three rungs.

Given this dislike of heights, the idea of rock climbing had never appealed to me. It seemed counterintuitive—why would I voluntarily put on a harness and scramble up a wall when I could feel my heart race just from looking out the window of a third floor hotel room? Yet, there I stood one morning this summer: standing at the base of the indoor rock climbing wall at Flying Squirrel Trampoline Park, hands clammy, heart pounding in my chest, mind swimming with Eminem lyrics, filled with doubt but determined to prove to my kids that their dad is brave (even though he isn’t).

 

Why indoor rock climbing?

I remember arriving at the park that day, feeling a mixture of excitement and apprehension. The buzz of energetic kids bouncing on trampolines and the muffled sounds of laughter and music filled the air. My oldest, excited to traverse the wall, had finally persuaded me to join him. As we approached the rock climbing area, my gaze lifted to the top of the wall, and a wave of anxiety washed over me.

The rock wall loomed like a giant, its colorful holds mocking my trepidation. My son went first, effortless scrambling up the wall as if to prove that fear isn’t genetic.

Then it was my turn. With a deep breath that did little to calm my racing heart, I placed my hand on the first hold and started my ascent.

 

Mastering indoor rock climbing: Finding my rhythm

The initial movements were clumsy, my body rigid with fear. Every reach and step was a battle against my instincts to just climb back down to the safety of solid ground. But as I pushed upward, something incredible happened. The focus required to find the next hold, to balance my weight, and to push through the burn in my muscles forced the rest of the world to fall away. It was just me and the wall.

Gradually, my breaths became less shallow, my movements more fluid. I started to trust the harness, the rope, my own body. Halfway up the wall, I paused, not because of fear, but in awe of the view below. The park spread out beneath me, a tapestry of joyful chaos, looked different from above. It was beautiful, and for the first time, the height didn't scare me. It exhilarated me.

The final stretch of indoor rock climbing was the hardest. My muscles screamed, and my hands felt like they could slip at any moment. But there was something else now, mingling with the fear: determination. I was going to reach the top. With one last push, I grasped the final hold, my body flush against the top of the wall. I had done it. I had climbed above my fear—literally.

 

The indoor rock climbing summit: A view worth the climb

I lingered at the top for a moment, breathing hard, letting the triumph wash over me. The descent was much quicker, almost disappointingly so, as I repelled back to solid ground. Back on the ground, my legs wobbled like jelly, but my spirit soared with a newfound confidence.

Reflecting on the experience now, I realize that rock climbing at Flying Squirrel was more than just an exercise in overcoming my fear of heights. It was a lesson in trust—trust in the equipment, in the support of my family, and, most importantly, in myself. It showed me that sometimes, to experience the full joy of an adventure, you have to let go of your fears and take the first step—or in my case, the first climb.

I left the park that day with sore fingers and a broad smile, my fear of heights a little less daunting than before. Would I go indoor rock climbing again? Absolutely. The fear may never completely vanish, but now I know I have the strength to face it.

Now that painting project? Well, that’s another story.