'Twas the Bight before Christmas

'Twas the Bight before Christmas : A Climbing Poem by Christina Cox

'Twas the bight before Christmas
And all through the crag
Not a single rope was flaked out
All tucked away in rope bags

Each rope was coiled in the bag with great care
In hopes that a climber would soon be there
Each cam and nut organized from from blue to green and red,
Tantalizing dreams of hard sends in each climber's head

My partner in her helmet, and I in my cap
We had just agreed on plans traced on a topo map

When out on the rocks there arose such a clatter
I sprang from my guidebook to see what was the matter

Away to the base of the climb I flew like a flash
Tore out my headlamp, expecting to see a crash
The moon on the gleam of holds covered in chalk
Guided my path on this late evening walk

When what did to my wondering eye did appear
But a daring soloist, displaying no fear!
With a sure-footed grip on the rock did he stick
I knew in a moment this was a destiny he picked

Delicate like a mountain goat, each move he made
And he whistled and shouted and called them all by name.

Now Sloper! Now Jug! now Pocket, and Crimper!
On Sidepull, on Undercling,
On Edge, and Pincher!

To the top of the route! To the top of the wall!
Now Climb on! Climb on! Climb on, all of ya'll!