Some folks who had stopped to watch me climb a rock which no one had ever thought of climbing because it wasn't worth it said, "You're pretty much free soloing now" which, as it turns out, could easily be my motto now. I had gone far enough above the crash pad that a fall would've probably meant a helicopter coming in close and a dude getting lowered in a wire basket with a grim face and wearing flippers and the de rigueur red dry suit like they do on the Discovery Channel. All I could think as my hands were starting to sweat and cramp and shake and my knees were becoming bitchy poltergeists was if there'd be a camera somehow, maybe in another helicopter nearby, and if I would give the "thumb's up" or not to the camera.
See, the problem is, I suck. I'm the guy that can make the kids section at the climbing gym seem epic. I'm also after whatever publicity I can get. I admit that. I'm writing to no one about completely meaningless misadventures. And hoping it will somehow be profitable enough someday that I can buy ripe bananas and gas and Nutella and Mara Natha Creamy All Natural No Stir Peanut Butter ("Batch roasted for great peanut taste") and Dave's Killer Bread and live out of my truck. For astute readers of this blog, I'll be naming these names a lot in an attempt to secure free goods from them since my athletic abilities make the folks at Clif Bar, La Sportiva and even the good relativists loosely known as my "Circle of Friends and Family", cringe. Y'all are totally welcome to donate still though. I also enjoy Advil PM for obvious reasons. No, really. Though I'm totally open to Calms Forte as well.
Anyway. The route, if you could call it that, started with a lie back that was easy enough. But then my feet were there and my hands were here and all I could do was keep going. So I did. Doh! I moved through the crux (which a real climber would think was just a nice place to stop and rest for a minute and maybe play a good game of self-thumb war), and found myself perched on crumbly precariousness twenty-five feet up. Down climbing was out of the question since I'd tried that earlier and had come screaming off the rock like a body being plunged feet first into the water, you know like in the movies when the mob inevitably dumps the corpse in the river. Then the words "you're pretty much free soloing now". Then the realization that I was not Chris Sharma. Panic. Then the realization that I'd been climbing again for about a week after a five year layoff. A bit more panic. Then the realization that death was a possibility. Extreme duress. Then the realization that I might be featured on NatGeo in the fall. Comforting. Then the realization that this was where I found myself in life both literally and figuratively. Exhale. So I went up. And twenty seconds later was walking down around the rock looking for the toilet paper. Easy peasy.
Life is a series of acts. What does Yvon Chouinard say (and how do you spell his name)? Something like "real adventure is one in which you might not come back alive, and certainly come back different"? That's about right. (I'll also gladly accept stuff from Patagonia. They have pretty colors). Unless you've literally faced the fact that you might die or get hurt real bad any moment now because of what you've stupidly done and what you might do and most importantly what you're doing right fucking now (panic), life doesn't have the same visceral contrast. I mean, when you're stressed out at work and people are freaking out and your world gets real small, once you've faced your own mortality, even if your mortality is faced on a laughably low rung on the ladder of difficulty, you have perspective. Perspective and clarity. Lightness and maybe even a smile grows across your face. Perhaps no one will understand. They might think you're nuts. And you know what? They'd be absolutely right. Because you're an addict now. And you're going to get there again.
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