Mountains have been firing the imaginations of writers and adventurers for centuries, and Anna Fleming’s debut is the latest addition to a long tradition of literary reflections that includes Nan Shepherd’s The Living Mountain and Robert Macfarlane’s Mountains of the Mind, both of which have clearly influenced Fleming’s writing.
There has been a vogue in recent years for memoirs by women seeking to immerse themselves in the natural world as a means of overcoming some deep trauma: divorce, addiction, the death of a parent. Fleming’s book has no such heroine’s journey at its heart; she just loves climbing. At one point she mentions the end of a relationship driving her to a more intense focus on her craft, but skates quickly across the surface of her feelings: “Some people turn to drink, I relaxed on the rock.”
While in some ways this is refreshing – male writers rarely frame stories of physical challenge in terms of psychic “healing” – the lack of an overarching narrative means that Fleming’s book can feel a little repetitive. No doubt fellow enthusiasts will revel in the intricate account of each ascent, but the non-specialist may feel it’s weighted too heavily towards the technical detail. I’d have liked to hear more, for example, about the pioneering female climbers she mentions in passing, or to read in greater depth about the psychology of risk, and how the experience of challenging herself on the rock face translated into the rest of her life.
That said, she writes beautifully about landscape, and her passion for these ancient formations is physical and poetic; she presents climbing as a form of partner dance. “And within that absorbing outdoor ballet – when stretching and balancing, reaching and releasing – you come to see things differently.”
• Time on Rock: A Climber’s Route Into the Mountains by Anna Fleming is published by Canongate (£16.99). To support the Guardian and Observer order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply
