It was on the
warm up. I stood on tipped toes surveying behind a flake for a
last cam before running it out on unprotectable slab. I
never suspected the flake. It popped loose, a boogie board of sharp stone.
It hit me in the right thigh and rode me down. The rope caught me on the next cam, but the stone kept going. It pushed passed my legs, smashed my right foot
against the slab and crashed to the ground. My trusty climbing partner, Alex, was okay. The rope was intact. I had a deep knot in my right thigh. I couldn't feel my toes. Maybe the
numbness would subside and everything would be fine or maybe it was a mess under the cover of my pant leg and shoe. Alex eased me to the base. I gingerly removed my climbing slipper.
Blood pricked from the corners of my darkened middle toes like drops
of juice from bruised fruit.
It was my first
climbing trip of the season, the first since February. There was novelty in the war story of the 5k bushwhack out from the WV jungle, then there was just atrophy of
mind and body in summer.
We sat in the
concentrated sun of my backyard. There was something on the grill and we were
drinking beer. I hadn't seen my climbing friends in a while. First child rearing kept me away, then I was
sidelined by that rock. I was happy to see them. I took a swig.
"Patagonia in
December eh? " There was no way I could make it happen, but old ambitions
stirred.
I listened to the story of Alex and Spencer's new route on a
remote wall in Wyoming. I took another swig, the beer warm and sickly sweet.
By late August I
could painfully don climbing shoes. I had planned on a trip to Yosemite in the Fall before I broke my toe, but now I wasn't sure. If I was going to take time
away from family it had to be worth it, and here I had no plan, no partner and
only six weeks to train.
"Man, so yeah, I could die," I said to myself sitting in the window seat on the airplane to California, reflecting on my progress leading to this moment, finally on route to the big stone.
Previous efforts uncovered new facets in the physical regime or diet. I looked inward to my motivations and fears and sought a new level of discipline on this one. Part of my daily effort was to meditate on the fact that death might come at any time, by traffic or cancer or plane crashing on my house--as it did for my dear colleague Marie--as inspiration to arrive in the moment with zeal and appreciation for what’s truly important, having examined my fears so as to control them rather than otherwise. Yet, I could not deny, if I die climbing it has a different meaning than a plane on my house. I chose this path even while I have such precious things to live for. The question of why always returns.
Climbing used to be my crusade. I would spend as much time as possible out there,
stripping fears and supposed necessities, exploring adaptation to
extremes. A youthful part of me sought to spite the civilized, and show how I could be so hardy as to leave it all, author my own survival. I adjusted and bought
in to the usual vestiges of USA citizenry and have started to reap the rewards
of work and family: the face of my son after a couple days away, his cracking
jokes to get me to laugh, me laughing at his joke, but even more with happiness
at his reaching out to me, and him, my son, laughing again, happy at my
happiness.
I recalled a trail run long ago, breaking into a clearing to find 5 adolescents boys wearing bright, loose gym clothes and book bags with water bottles and accessory garments strapped to the sides. They were in the act of crossing a 12" caliper tree bridged over NW Branch Creek. Two had completed the crossing. One was mid-way, half crouched, clutching thick branches that obstructed his passage over the central trunk. One was tentatively beginning the traverse on the far end with a tall can of Monster energy drink in one hand. The last waited his turn.