when viewed from the valley floor. Much of it had cracks and edges for feet and hands, yet some sections looked quite smooth. As Alex and I began our climb, I was not sure whether my mountain boots would stick to the smooth rock.
Alex led the first pitch, while I belayed him. A pitch is a section of the climb, up to the length of the rope between climbers, to a safe place, where the lead climber can belay the following climber. Belaying is a technique of managing the rope to protect a climbing partner during a fall. When it was my turn to climb, I was pleasantly surprised how well my boots stuck to the rock, even when I used only the very tips of my toes. I felt like a ballerina en pointe creeping up the rock. On subsequent pitches, I looked for smaller holds and steeper lines to test my boots’ limits.
After our 10th pitch, Alex and I untied from our rope, coiled and loaded it into his pack, and scrambled up to the ridge. The summit was not much further up the ridge’s spine to our left, but we each had summited Mount Olympus many times before, so we decided to descend, before it got too late.
We rappelled down the slabs. Alex scrambled down first to locate the first rappel anchor, a sling around a big tree with a steel ring through which to thread our rope. Rappelling is a technique in which the climber backs down a steep rock wall, feet flat against the wall, while controlling the feed of the rope through a friction device attached to the climber’s harness. Alex, then I, managed each of several successive rappels smoothly. We were scrambling down the couloir off rope, when I slipped and lost my foot holds. Hanging by my fingers from a rocky ledge, I froze, paralyzed with fear. Alex helped me get my feet back on the rock, so I could climb down safely. I felt like a fool, but Alex did not treat me like one. Even after that embarrassing moment, I was pleased to have climbed the entire day carrying a climbing pack and wearing the boots and gloves I planned to use on Carstensz Pyramid.
The IMG training guidelines suggested hot yoga to increase core strength and flexibility. In recent years heat and humidity had made me feel weak, unmotivated, and even unwell, so I had avoided trying hot (or Bikram) yoga, though several friends had enthusiastically recommended it. During my last practice climb with Anna, she told me about a special deal at a local yoga school, 10 continuous days of Bikram yoga for 20 USD. I decided to give it a go. Twelve days before I left for Bali, I signed up.
While I was still employed with the Utah Department of Health, I had practiced YogaFit yoga regularly for about seven years in our in-house fitness room. I had even taught a basic yoga class there once a week for two years. YogaFit teaches us to be patient and kind with ourselves. I had found the gentle, YogaFit approach to be a beneficial counterpoint to the traditional, no-pain, no-gain fitness training I had used for decades.
At my first Bikram yoga class I made a timid entrance. Very lean guys wearing only fitted black trunks padded barefoot in the lobby. I felt self-conscious, as I wrestled my yoga matt, towels, water bottle, and gym bag into the semi-dark studio. Heat hit me like a blast furnace. In a rear corner, I stripped down to sweat band, jog bra, and running shorts, resisting the urge to compare my aging body unfavorably to the bodies of lithe, younger yoga practitioners. Sweat ran from every pore, trickling through my hair, down my chest, back, arms, and legs. Let it go, I coached myself. You have sweated before. Not this much, my inner whiner whimpered, as sweat saturated my sweat band and poured into my eyes. Other practitioners were lying on their backs with their eyes closed on their mats. That looked like a good idea, so I did the same.
Lying there staring at the ceiling, my usual pre-yoga meditation took over. I relaxed, deepened and slowed my breathing, and quieted my mind. Curiosity replaced some of my anxiety. What would this first Bikram yoga class be like? What would I learn?
Suddenly someone opened the studio door. Bright lights came on and stung my eyes. A male voice rang out. “Welcome! I’m Stan. Stand up! Is anyone new to Bikram yoga?” I scrambled to my feet and timidly raised my hand along with a couple others in a sea of experienced practitioners. “Follow along, and do what you can,” Stan advised us. “If you need to, stop and rest a moment.” I can do that, I thought. I relaxed a little.
Then we began. Unlike YogaFit classes, which consisted of long, slow flows accompanied by the instructors’ gentle coaching, “If it hurts, don’t do it; don’t bounce, don’t lock your joints,” Stan barked militaristic commands, “Bend back, way back, fall back; now bend forward, more, lock your joints, more, bounce! Lock your joints!” Stan signaled the end of a pose or stretch with a sharp hand clap like a gun shot, which made me flinch.
Within minutes, sweat stung my eyes and blurred my vision. I thought my eyeballs would drown. I clawed sweat from my face at every opportunity simply to see. When I tried to stand on one foot, lift, and grab the other foot as instructed, my foot slipped out of my hand like a greased fish. The constant drip, drip, drip of my own sweat drove me nuts. Let it go, it’s only sweat, I reminded myself repeatedly.
Several times I was tempted to stop and rest, but I took a deep breath instead and kept going. Finally, all the poses, flows, and breathing exercises were done. Lying on my sweat-soaked towel in final relaxation pose, I felt a quiet sense of triumph. I had survived my first 90-minute Bikram class. I would be back tomorrow. As the days passed, the classes became not easy, but easier. My flexibility improved more than I expected in such a short period of time.
Meanwhile, IMG emailed a link to a video of Papuans demonstrating for more autonomy from Indonesia (see www. youtube.com/watch?v=2qonI4-5iA8). The video showed large parades with some Papuans wearing tribal regalia and carrying traditional spears or bows and arrows. Others carried separatist flags and banners. Though the parade appeared to be peaceful, the video was unnerving, as Indonesia had a recent history of ruthlessly suppressing even peaceful demonstrations like this one. The political situation was out of my control, so I tried to focus on factors I could control, like my fitness training, to prepare for this trip.
Time sped up and slowed down erratically, as my departure day approached. Unexpectedly, John Pieper with Gregory, a locally owned company that makes packs, found the only size small of a canary-yellow, 50-liter Alpinisto climbing pack in North America and got it to me before my departure day. I had admired Alex’s copy of this pack, when we climbed the West Slabs on Mount Olympus. Alex must have told John about me. This new pack was perfect, as our Carstensz Pyramid guides wanted us to wear bright colors in the jungle, so we would be easier to see in the dense, dark foliage. I was delighted and grateful for John’s last-minute gift.
June 29, 2012. I woke up early, unable to sleep. The first of my series of flights from Salt Lake to Bali was in the evening, so I had the day for last-minute preparations, before the airport shuttle picked me up. I rechecked and repacked my gear for the last time, trying to get my jungle hiking and climbing gear down to the 44 pounds we would be allowed for the final flight from Timika to Sugapa. I failed spectacularly. My gear weighed 97 pounds. Why do mountain guide companies do this? I grumbled. They insist we bring every item on their equipment list, but then my baggage always weighs too much. On past trips, the guides had helped me decide what to bring on the climb and what to leave behind during the gear check, before we left our last hotel. That thought eased some of my annoyance and anxiety.
I would carry my mountain boots and knee-high mud boots in my new yellow climbing pack as my carry-on bag. To conserve space, I stuffed each boot with other items that would be difficult to replace if lost, such as my prescriptions and digital camera. Around the boots, I crammed my journal, a small bag of toiletries, passport, cash, travel documents, and debit card. Everything else, I divided evenly between two duffels, so if one went missing, all items of a particular kind would not be lost.
To calm my pre-departure jitters, I went to my gym for a short, easy workout. There would be few opportunities to exercise during the long flights and lay overs in airports. After a light lunch, I picked spinach from my garden and gave bags of it to my neighbors. I watered my lawns, vegetable garden, and fruit trees one last time. I tried to nap, hoping to stockpile sleep before the trip. No luck. I kept remembering things that needed to be done and jumped up to do them. I had to smile at this familiar pattern of pre-trip restlessness. I was turning down the air conditioning, when the airport shuttle pulled into my driveway. I shouldered my climbing pack and grabbed my two duffels, wrestling