“Nothing changes really about love”
Alice Munro

I received a piece of advice recently, from a surprising source.

“Do what it is you need to do”

For days, the words tumbled around in my mind like a pebble stuck in my shoe, persistently yet softly reminding me of their presence.

Each word is simple, common and monosyllabic. Yet, they are arranged in such a way to express an idea that is worth enough to be profoundly unclear upon first consideration; to understand it, I had to sit with it.

But, as I considered the simple beauty in that, most of my attention was focused elsewhere.

Life here shows itself in far-gone gestures and traces, always one step ahead of me. I have never seen the mountain lion I decided was male and affectionately named Igor, but often find his fresh tracks. In the evening, what I believe must be a dignified owl – its hoot so deep and melancholic – makes itself known, but never seen. The bounding antelope undulate  and meld with the distant heat-waves. Even the fighter-jet pilots frequently fly over this area are visibly untraceable as they send a shivering whistle that can be heard for miles.

The presence of field mice, though, has been confirmed, as they unfortunately found a way into my van. I dubbed them (all four of them) Henry, after the affable husband of the protagonist in one of my favorite books, Olive Kitteridge, who dies. I have been reading a lot, lately.

After briefly considering them as pets, I ultimately provided four suppers for the local owl. His hoot seemed to liven up a bit and I felt better about Henry the third, who set the trap but did not actually die. I found him next to it, hyperventilating and only slowly responsive.

I took him outside and laid him like bait on the gravel. My heart filled with lead and sank as he looked up at me, perhaps confused as to why it was suddenly so much colder. I closed the door of my van and went to bed.

In the morning, Henry the third had disappeared.

13 February 2020

The first time I heard someone wobble I was dropping down into L’Espadelles, one of the most popular crags in one of the most legendary sport-climbing areas in the world.

The cries were shrill and prolonged, laced with expletives. It went on long enough that I was able to pinpoint the source — a recognizeable professional climber, fists pounding in the air. The image of him sinking into his harness as his anger seemingly turned to sorrow stuck with me. His sense of overwhelming defeat was palpable, as if hanging off the end of the rope —not having to deal with his own weight against gravity—was all he could do.

I thought it was embarrassing and immature. I didn’t understand why someone would have such an emotional reaction over a random piece of rock in which success was indicated by two adjacent bolts. It was spring 2013 and I was a foreign exchange student living in Barcelona for a year. A 5.11 climber, I was just beginning to get comfortable taking lead falls and certainly hadn’t tried a route more than once or twice.

I was absolutely ga-ga over this new sport, and, naively, couldn’t understand how someone could derive so much anger from it.

Seven years later, I’m a different kind of climber.

My eyelids fluttered closed as I put the van in park. Still, the glowing lights of the highway pulsed in the darkness. Though I had just driven for fifteen hours straight, I did not feel tired. The smell of the night’s rain lingered gently, weaving its way through my window. For a minute, though I was alone, I felt the warmth of intimacy curling up into my spine. Sleep came quickly and I awoke slowly, the hum of traffic on Rainier reminding me where I was. I lit the stove and soon the sound of cars was broken with the welcome slow gurgle of a finished pot of coffee. Today, I noticed the shape of the mug, its heat emanating into my hands.

The only time in which I find total clarity is when I am running. It’s often very brief, a few minutes here and there, but it is distinctive and real. I suppose the simplicity of the action is freeing, it’s almost like breathing- you just do it.

In October and November, I had been running on the Yosemite Valley loop trail. Every time, I ran the same length of trail which passed directly underneath a classic, steep and short route called Cosmic Debris. You can see the short angled crack jut between the pines, daring you to come try it . I had been working on the route for several days. Normally, when I’m projecting a route, I tend to find myself visualizing it when I run.

In fact, for Cosmic Debris, I’d always deliberately look at the route when I ran, to try to force my mind onto it. Because this time, and for many runs prior to and after this one, I was elsewhere, I was somewhere I really didn’t want to think about. My feet were touching ground with Yosemite Valley, but in my head I was in a vivid fantasy, performing the eight moves of the finishing crux to a route I had worked on over the summer. I could feel the left smear under my left foot, could almost see the Californian sun get a little dimmer as I found myself in a dark, wet, small cave in northwestern Washington. Physically, I was in a climbing mecca, a gorgeous spot many people vie to be in, even if only for a few days. It honestly feels embarrassing to admit this, like I am pining for some long lost lover.

That’s why you’re good”. “The best , they always try to push through the pain. They have to.”

My right hand was warm, covered in clear ultrasound gel. A probe was pressed against the base of my right ring finger, the same place that had been achy for two weeks. A computer monitor to my right displayed a coarse black and white image. In the center was a thick line made up of different shades of gray. It reminded me of a river. Below the line was a large black gap, and then a bright white base. The gray river was my tendon. Normally, it sits flush against the white line, the bone. My tendon was held well above the bone- 40cm at minimal resistance- because I had torn the ligament, the pulley, that holds it there.

For one last moment, the place we’d left that evening materialized in front of me. Evanescent, like a thin dawn haze you’re not sure exists, and yet so solid that you’ve spent months here. It is secret and mysterious, radiantly verdant and bursting out of the forest, daring and breathtaking.

When climbing clicks it’s as good as any buzz out there. It is fierce and lithe- a cheetah taut, tight, and then leaping at full stretch. It’s as precise and right as an iris flower, beautifully optimized to perform. It is momentous and captivating, the beginning score of a flawlessly tuned orchestra rising suddenly from silence, deep, full and roaring inside of you. You’ll go through a million bad days for those minutes of absolute perfection.

That feeling brushed by me last weekend, like a soft wind soothed by the mountains. A mere thirteen body movements at the cusp of my limit, executed perfectly. I chased it down the rest of the day, but as quickly as it came it was gone.

More often than not, the big cat is turned nervous and edgy. The flower opens too soon, a jagged out of tune note thunders out of harmony, the volume turned up full blast. It’s a thin line to walk- achieving the most meaningful flow requires a no-guarantee investment of many, many bad days.

Climbing near my limit forces me to prove it to myself. Can’t be weak and try voodoo. Can’t be unfocused and try voodoo. Maybe I can’t love you and try voodoo. Can’t give anything less than a furious, firey, ball of energy. A calculated, controlled explosion of emotion, power, fight, strength, and humility.

Can’t. Can’t. Can’t.