The first rays of cold morning light are just starting to peek through the treetops. Icy streams trickle down from the forest above, weaving through the moss-clad rocks of the canyon wall, finding their way always to the waiting river. Jenny and I snap our skirts over our cockpits without speaking, our breath forming miniature clouds in the early morning air. We slide our boats into the water and steer our bows into the current. 

We both have work in a few hours. There will be co-workers to chat with, spreadsheets to organize, and emails to send. But the early morning is ours. We carve in and out of eddies, flowing over and around the rocks, using the current to move our boats and to move us. 

Sometimes we paddle quickly and efficiently in the early mornings and other times we savor the quiet moments between rapids like sipping morning coffee. Today we linger and in a calm section we drift gently apart. I lean back, rest my head on the stern of my boat, and close my eyes, letting my mind drift too. My body fills with gratitude for this regular Wednesday morning. But no day is regular if it starts like this, and I know the rest of my Wednesday will carry a little extra magic, captured in the frosty morning. Tasks to be completed at work. Groceries to be shopped for. Taxes to be filed. The river rinses away the flurry of thoughts and slips each one the cold water with a plop. 

More than yoga, I prefer this surrender on the river. I am content as a temporary part of this moving landscape. In moments of fear in big rapids I have to dig deep to find resolve and strength to power through. Sheer stubbornness keeps me trying to roll up when it feels like the river is holding me down. I love tapping into that fire, fueling the adrenaline-filled moments of pure focus and commitment. But I also cherish these hushed moments gently flowing over water-worn rocks. 

I sit up, breaking my reverie, and see Jenny paddling ahead of me. She is a bright splash of Gore-Tex against the living backdrop of moss, water, and stone. I dig my paddle into the water to catch up, ready for the next rapid.

The first month of climbing was exhausting and sometimes a bit overwhelming. I was not very good at it and I felt physically weak. My body was not balanced and I was mostly scared of falling on the mat from a height. I could barely hold on to sloppers or climb on the sloped walls. I had to work hard to ascend even the easy routes. However, I started to improve in a month’s time. Unfortunately, I broke my ankle in a foolish slacklining incident. I felt devastated because I had just started to improve and the thought of not climbing for months saddened me. I wasn’t ready to let go. I continued to go to the gym with my walker to work on my upper body strength. I was determined to build my strength and trained my fingers during these months. Once my cast was removed, I worked on improving my ankle strength and started to climb again within three months of my fracture. Magically, my climbing improved because of the strength training I did during the break. 

As months went by, my strength and technique continued to improve. My body felt more balanced and the strength in my fingers gave me more confidence. I started doing dynamic moves with more grace. I realized that climbing is more of a mental game than about strength. Some days, when my mind is not in the game, I fail to grasp the holds. Only when I truly commit and really want the hold does it come naturally to me. I realized that to become better I had to be more disciplined in my habits. I changed my lifestyle completely, from eating to sleeping. I believed only consistency and discipline would give me the results I was aiming for. I could slowly see myself becoming a different person – someone I never imagined I could be a year previously. Even my vacations slowly evolved from relaxed sightseeing to climbing adventures. One day, when we were climbing outdoors in Ramanagara, a small settlement near Bangalore, I met a teenage girl who had just started to climb. She was struggling to climb an easy route. By then my fingers were strong and I could easily ascend such routes. She was impressed with my strength and how quickly I reached the top. She came to me and mentioned she wanted to train to become a better climber. That day I realized I could mentor and motivate another woman.

My first session on the 880m line was more like a walk through hell than a journey to an altered state of consciousness. Strong gusty wind was throwing me off, and the anchor didn’t seem to be getting any closer. When, for the umpteenth time, a strong gust threw me off about 300 meters (984 feet) from the end, I couldn’t distinguish what was reality and what were delusions. Is it even windy? Why do I feel like I’m floating at sea? Maybe I have heatstroke? As if on cue, Björn, one of the local highliners, cheered me on through the walkie-talkie: “Denisa, you are killing it in the crazy wind! Good job!” His words encouraged me, and somehow I managed to fight through the last hundreds of meters. The highline was twisting like a snake, and the backup loops were extending over the main line in all directions. The next day I was incapable of doing anything. I was just sitting and staring into space, trying to understand how much my mind had played tricks on me the previous day. 

Before my next session, I was nervous the entire day. I had doubts about my ability to deal with the vast open space and remain calm. However, once I decided to go for it, I pushed away the dark thoughts and focused entirely on the walk. This time, I wasn’t intimidated by the great remaining distance; I concentrated only on each successive hundred-meter segment. After just under two hours, I reached the other end of the highline, with five falls. I didn’t feel tired, and it felt as if no time had passed at all. 

In the following days, I reduced the number of falls to just two. However, as I sat by the anchor on the last day, watching the highline being tossed to all sides by a strong gusty wind, I couldn’t shake the memory of the first day. Was it going to be hell again? Three times within the first hundred meters, I turned around. “Give it a try, you'll see that you might be surprised at how it turns out in the end” said George over the walkie-talkie. With a long breath in and a long breath out, I took his words to heart and started to make my way to the other side where the crew was hanging out, playing the guitar, and celebrating slacklife. In the meantime, I was drowning in self-pity. The first half of my walk was the anticipated hell. I tried to walk quickly, but strong gusts unexpectedly threw me off, and I found myself hanging in the leash again and again. On the verge of mental exhaustion, I gave up and remembered George's simple advice: “Just run.” I don’t remember the next 300 meters. I ran through them in a flow, feeling invincible. The wind was still blowing, but it no longer bothered me. 

All the hardships were worth it. I found the perfect flow.