I once fell thirty feet off the Red Slab in Rock Canyon. I say “thirty” because that’s where I stopped—but it began as a fifteen-foot drop. I was leading, and my last piece of gear hadn’t held as expected. What saved me was my belay partner and good friend down below—Stu—his steadiness, his eyes locked on me even as I fell headfirst toward him—and a rope designed to stretch just enough, to hold without snapping.
That rope didn’t just keep me from hitting the ground. It absorbed the force of a fall I couldn’t control. It gave—but it didn’t break.
I’ve thought a lot about ropes since then.
What Holds
Climbing ropes today are almost all kernmantle construction: a strong core (the kern) protected by a woven outer sheath (the mantle). The design is elegant—the core carries the load; the sheath handles the wear.
But not all kernmantle ropes are alike. The one that saved me on Red Slab was dynamic—engineered to stretch under sudden force and gradually slow a fall. In contrast, static ropes resist stretching. They’re used for hauling gear, rappelling, and rescue—tasks where give could be dangerous.
It’s a crucial distinction, one that only matters when it really matters.
A Rope That Wouldn’t Bend
Years after that fall, I found myself searching for a rope for a different purpose—something smaller, something tough enough to withstand high heat and constant twisting. I tested options with aramid fibers like Kevlar and Technora—materials known for their heat resistance—but they grew brittle under torque. Others flexed well but glazed or fused with friction. Most failed quickly when pushed outside their intended use. They snapped, fused, or unraveled.
And I was reminded of an old proverb:
“A rope that will not bend, breaks.”
In climbing and in life, resilience often comes from flexibility—not rigidity.
Designed to Hold, Not Just to Last
Kernmantle ropes are a study in balanced design. Parallel fibers inside bear the load. The sheath guards against friction, UV light, and sharp edges. The rope doesn’t just survive stress—it manages it. Strength. Stretch. Durability.
And I started to wonder: how often have I tried to live like static ropes—strong, stiff, unmoving? But when the fall comes, what I’ve often needed was something dynamic. Something that gives—but still holds.
Stu, Still Holding
That day on the Red Slab, Stu didn’t flinch. He braced, locked the rope firmly to his side with his braking hand, and held fast as I came to a stop. I remember the jolt, the slam, the slack catching. I remember the silence that followed. I was still there.
“Two are better than one… For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow.”
— Ecclesiastes 4:9–10
I’ve come to believe that’s more than good advice. It’s a spiritual truth. We aren’t made to ascend alone. And when we fall—and heaven knows I have fallen—someone else’s steadiness can make all the difference.
What Christ Carries
Lately, I’ve started to see the rope as more than just equipment. As a symbol. Maybe even as a metaphor for Jesus Christ.
He’s the one who descends with us into risk. Who takes the heat of our choices, the twisting of our doubt, the shock of our falls. He absorbs it all—and still holds.
He doesn’t snap.
He doesn’t retreat.
He doesn’t let go.
If kernmantle ropes are designed for dynamic failure—to catch, stretch, protect—then Jesus is the ultimate rope. The one tested by fire, betrayal, and weight. And yet still strong. Still present. Still catching me—catching each of us.
What We Trust
That fall could have ended differently. The rope alone didn’t save me. It was the combination: design, trust, partnership. The tension between what’s engineered and what’s human.
You don’t always know when you’re going to fall. But when you do, you’ll learn quickly whether what you’re tied into can handle the weight.
The best ropes stretch.
The best partners hold.
And we truly have a friend in Jesus who takes the full force of our fall—and pulls us gently, firmly—back toward the light.
