there’s this image, this experience that comes to mind more and more these days
I grew up in Pennsylvania. The Appalachians are old. They were worn out long ago, the rich soil washed out to sea (to make decent fishing tho!). A few waterfalls where the bedrock stone changes, for pre-steam industry.
No glaciers cutting cliffs like in upstate NY, but a river or even creek could wear a deep, gentle gouge. So we didn’t so much have rock or mountain climbing as hill scrambling.
I’m not saying I did this often, but it would happen often enough you developed skills, in the dirt parts you’d pull yourself up by trunks and roots, even a decent tuft of grass worked as a sacrificial boost
but the image that sticks with me is this: on a rocky scree slope, or a sandy creek bank that was too loose to scramble up intact, what you’d do is you thrust your hands under the surface, with your fingers spread wide like a snowshoe, and get enough draw off that
I dunno what I’m supposed to get from that but there it is
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