I walked out of Campmor in Paramus, NJ with a blaze orange, fifty-meter, Bluewater rope over my shoulder and drove the hour home wide-eyed and grinning from ear to ear. That night, I slept as restless as a youngster on Christmas eve and dreamed not of sugarplums, but of the rope and I on our vertical escapades.

I awoke just as giddy as I was at the checkout counter, stuffed the eleven-millimeter coil into my pack, added a few granola bars, an empty gallon milk jug, and a pair of my mom’s old running shoes. The only other pieces of gear that I owned were a blue anodized figure eight and a locking carabiner which I added to the bag—no harness, no webbing, no nuts, no nothing.

I threw my tackle into my 1974 Volkswagen Beetle and drove to my buddy’s house to pick him up for an adventure. To which, we parked in a dirt pullout off Orange Turnpike just down the road from the town where we grew up, Monroe, NY.

I called the roadside crag Gompus because I misremembered the word gobi (a hand injury from pulling too hard on sharp rocks) which I think I read from John Long’s hallowed tome, “How to Rock Climb.” I wasn’t the first to climb at Gompus. There was a cave there, entirely man-made. The cavern wasn’t deep but was steep, and some old stone master drilled a series of four, three, and two-finger pockets through the forty-five-degree steeps and over the lip. Old iron mines speckled the hills around Monroe, and I suspected that the cave was either the start or the end of some metallurgic exploration.

I couldn’t touch that hard man’s cave so focused on the easier less than vertical face to the right. I walked around to the top of the little crag and dropped my pack.

The one hundred and fifty feet of brand new nylon flaked about on the grey stone like a corn snake, and I slung one end around a stout oak that stood tall next to me. The oak was old and wise, and if I held a fraction of the great tree’s wisdom, I would have had the patience to wait until I obtained more gear to be here.

Between the oak and the rope, I placed the crushed milk jug to help the rope slide across the bark and protect the tree. The plan worked as far as I could tell, so I coiled the ends and threw them down to Chris then walked back to the base to join him.

We pulled the rope back and forth be sure the milk jug provided the required slip and then wrapped a few coils around our waists with either end of the Bluewater. Chris pulled up the slack, and the rope around my waist became taught. We hooked the carabiner through the coil around Chris, and I filled him in on proper belay technique I only know through the written word, “This is your brake hand. Never let this go.”

Reaching down, I grabbed my pack and withdrew my secret weapon. My mother wore a women’s size eight and I wore a men’s nine and a half, but I knew from my book learning that a tight shoe was the way to go, so I loosened the laces and stuffed my sockless foot into those nylon and suede runners.

Chris took up the slack, and I cast off. After Chris lowered me, I vowed to get a proper harness as soon as I could afford one.