A Rocky Beginning : Despite the bruises and scraped knees, bouldering offers challenging and adventurous fun.

Think about it. Was man meant to scale the slippery sheer faces of rock walls? Was he meant to wear round-toed shoes three sizes too small so that he could use his tippy-toes with the power of a running back, the grace of a ballerina?

Was he meant to see all those big, bad boulders as his friends? As steppingstones to adventure?

Well, if your name is Eric Peltzer and you’re somewhat of a wispy man with zero body fat, with sinewy limbs and the determination of a spawning salmon, the answer is yes.

But if you’re like me--with all the grace of a clown on stilts, as agile as an ironing board, a schmo with a gut like Wimpy and biceps like Popeye before spinach, then the answer is a resounding N-O.

I went rock climbing the other day. I scraped up my bony knees as though I had slid on asphalt. I battered my hands so badly--sticking them into rough rock crevices where they had no business being--that I wore away my fingerprints.

Worst of all, I bruised the biggest muscle in my entire body--my ego--helplessly grasping at clefts and ridges that mocked my feeble grip, noting yet another sport in which my chubby body is ill-equipped to perform.

But man, did I have a good time!

Peltzer and Andrew LePage, two rock huggers with six and one years of experience, respectively, offered to show me the rock-climbing ropes at Stoney Point off Topanga Canyon Boulevard, one of the most popular bouldering areas in Southern California.

Bouldering means climbing without ropes, achieving heights only as high as you feel comfortable falling from--as opposed to being secured by a rope to break your fall. But we’ll get to that in a minute.

As I said, Peltzer’s style is like rock ballet.

He’s limber like Spiderman and looks as if he could scale the Washington Monument with a foothold or two. LePage, a former football player, makes up for his chunkiness with the power to make the rock his submissive partner. I mean, if he got mad enough, he could crush the damned stuff to dust.

So, both boys explained the basics of bouldering and encouraged me to try. I was standing next to a huge rock as flat as the Flintstones’ house known as B-2, a famous spot that offers several challenging climbs without having to risk going sky-high.

Have you ever seen rocks laugh? I have. I stood there helplessly on the ground as though trying to mount a 30-foot bareback horse. The trick was using your fingers to pull and your feet to push. Well, I lunged at the rock like a midget kid jumping for cookies on the top shelf.

“Try it again,” LePage said. “Only this time, with a little more grace.”

It didn’t get much better. I’d watch Peltzer slither up the rock like a snake as I felt fat and inferior, the horseflies climbing around my bloodied, wounded knees.

LePage insisted that rock climbing was a sport of egomaniacs, that some of the stunts the young climbers pulled were dangerous as well as incredibly beautiful. Myself, I couldn’t seem to get off the ground.

Finally, after numerous tries that had me feeling like an armless, legless dunce, something clicked. Like that first time on the bunny slope where you make a timid, fragile turn and, instead of falling again, you suddenly grasp the concept of skiing.

I finally had a leg up on this rock-climbing gig.

Gekko-like, I reached up and located another ledge. Meanwhile, LePage quipped that if I got stuck while climbing at Stoney Point, I could always just hang there and enjoy the graffiti.

I went up the rock like a Velcro Gumby, one move at a time. Of course, Peltzer and LePage were encouraging.

“You’re doing great, man,” LePage called. “If you fall now, you’ll only risk a concussion, not certain death.”

Suddenly, I felt this surge of power. I was going where no other 6-foot-3 geek reporter had gone before. The rock was like Mt. Everest and I was Jacques Crusteau, or something like that.

Finally, Peltzer warned me that I had gone far enough, that I should come down now.

Right.

Rock climbing is like a career. It’s a lot easier going up than coming down. I froze, hugging the rock octopus-like, as I would a high-school girlfriend in a darkened movie theater.

And then it dawned on me: This rock was not my friend. The thing didn’t even know my name. Like those trees in “The Wizard of Oz,” it was sick and tired of me picking its apples. It wanted me off its back.

I looked up and saw birds of prey circling overhead. They were probably ravens, but to me, they were vultures. I was a bearded cat up a tree.

“They can sense fear,” Peltzer offered generously.

I hated rock climbing.

And no, they didn’t have to call the police tactical squad to get me down. Peltzer did that nicely with the 461 ropes he attached to me.

Back at the car, my knees were knocking, my nerves frayed, my confidence vanquished, my speech stuttered.

Then I asked the question most novice rock huggers ask:

“When can we go again?”