Morning in August

I finally drifted off to sleep last night, heavy with the need for rest. This did not last long. I woke to trilling, screeching, purring raccoon kits playing: little balls of fur tackling and rolling about just outside my window. A smile found my sleepy face. How could I be mad at such cute critters? But after a few minutes I knocked on my window and kindly asked, "Hey, guys? Could you keep it down?" They scampered further off, creating a muted ruckus further down the yard.

Next I know Mom is prefacing the question of whether or not I'd like some coffee with, "I know this is a dumb question, but..."

Roll from bed. Coffee. Sugar. Too much sugar. Add more coffee. 7am? Enough time to sit back and read Climbing magazine. Find a bit of motivation. Sip on bean juice. Wait--is it trash day? I've been waiting to clean out the fridge for two weeks. Pause... clean... gross... okay, done.

As I read a randomly pulled back issue I think about how little I have climbed. I do consider myself a climber, though not a very good one. My grip strength is improving; I am getting myself out on some easy leads (both trad and sport); I've been reading John Long's Anchor books; talking rock with Jacob; and finally been dreaming about more vertical granite than I can shake a stick at. I'm a climber at heart and am slowly following in action.

My Honda Civic died. The clutch gave out and I sold it all in one day. My savings plus the few measly bucks I milked from the car sale is not enough for a down payment on a new or even a certified used car. So I rock the Momobile CRV (thanks, Mom!). Wait. Save. Search. Buy?

I've had my teaching credential for just over one year now. I have just four years left to find a job in the classroom. I still want to teach. One day, I will.

restoration

Having my back thrown out at only 24 years of age is disheartening. The pain, however, gave me a fresh appreciation for my working body. While I waited for my back to heal, I was able to focus on other things on my visit to Joshua Tree. I was unable to climb, but I could cheer on my friends who were able. As they climbed, I took some time to revel in the beauty in which this place is soaked; red adobe buildings crumbling in the sunset, cactus wrens making a lovely racket, and warm, smokey breeze kept me captivated.

Each time I return I feel more connected, more invited, and more at home in Joshua Tree.

I wonder if I will ever have just one place I call "home"?

relaxation, blood, and a Harley

Blurred.

The landscape is a blur of browns, tans, and stubborn green.

I'm smiling irrepressibly while on the back of Jake's Harley Davidson. An orange, black and chrome piece of fury roars beneath us. So this is the freedom of the road, freedom to be force-fed air, freedom to be thrilled.

My arms are in a knot around Jake; I duck my head down behind his shoulders to breathe on my own terms. I laugh: he accelerates.

Red tailed hawks in their winter color phase reel above us in a sky fit for dreams.

We climb in the shade of a boulder that could hide a house. A massive crack runs through the center, splitting the rock, and its very existence challenges us to climb it. We hang upside down from our [taped] wrists, our [bare] fingers, our ankles, our toes. He moves with precision and power. I falter and chuckle as the rock rejects my efforts. He reaches for his water bottle and drinks. Two deep red smudges of blood remain on the sides of the bottle and dry there. We comment on the happy insanity of masochistic climbers. The athletic tape on my hands smells of sweat and chalk.

Cactus wrens call out in the yucca-studded distance.

"I live not in myself, but become portion of that around me; and to me high mountains are a feeling, but the hum of human cities torture."

-Lord Byron

I like the juxtaposition of riding a Harley and then climbing boulders in the middle of the desert. Both exude freedom and something uninhibited, yet one is natural and the other mechanical. Each is an expression of the human spirit. The spirit of ambition. Born to be unrestrained. Born to remain untamed. The bike; the climb. The biker; the climber.

I love that Jake exposed me to something new, something I did not expect. I will always crave the wilderness, but from now on I can say that riding on the back of a Harley is a different kind of release--a new way to feel wild.

Frozen Washes

There is something particularly breath-taking about walking over a frozen wash in the Wonderland of Rocks area in Joshua Tree National Park. Ice groans and snaps underfoot; sand is glued together to form an unintended sculpture. Gray fox prints are filled in with hail. He sees me and glides over the rocks to a safe distance.

What is it about this place that is so magical that I am drawn back to it again and again? Each time I return I find another reason to smile; another memory is made that I will not soon forget.

The faces of climbers who live to be on the rock; the choir of coyotes at two in the morning; the never-failing falling stars; the ache in my limbs as I crawl into my sleeping bag after a day of climbing: what more could I ask for than this?

Someone to share it with for the rest of my life.

Fear Less

I thought I was fearless.

But now sounds in the night make me jump.

The words "ground fall" and "decking" make my skin crawl.

Either I am getting older

or I am losing track of who I am.

Who's keeping track, anyway?

The Humbling

Ryan tied me in at the first belay station on a tiny ledge about 190ft above the ground. The ground; it never spun like it does in movies, but it looked up at me and laughed a condescending laugh. My eyes wandered over the knots and carabiners that held me to the wall.

I have no reason to fear. I know this gear will hold me. I know that I am safe.

But Gravity has a way of mocking you like a five year old might: "You're gonna faaaall!"

My eyes find Ry Ry looking back at me, smiling.

We're climbing! Why am I feeling fear? I smile back and admire the view. Clouds line the horizon and the wind is wicking the sweat from beneath my helmet.

Dappled Mare, 5.8: It's a beautiful climb in the Lost Horse area; finger cracks, an underclinging crack traverse, and face features. 380ft total. My first multi-pitch climb.

I hand out slack as Ryan climbs up, placing small cams and nuts as he goes. He climbs out of view. This is like fishing. I can feel him climbing at the end of the rope, at the end of this lifeline. Wwwzzzzrrrrrh! He must be nearing the end of the climb; not much rope left.

His voice on the radio, "Kat! I'm at the top. Off belay."

Now I clean up anchor and tie in to the rope.

The underclinging crack traverse is simple enough, but the wind decided, at that moment, to revisit me and test my mental abilities. The next piece of protection is about 15ft away from me, at the end of the traverse. If I were to slip I would become a human pendulum. But this was an easy ain't-nothin' series of moves.

Until the wind gusted and I lost my nerves and a string of profanity filled the air around me. My fingers clung to the rock and I regained my balance.

It's so hard to trust yourself, to trust in the movements of your body. But without that self-trust, you cannot climb.

I cleaned the pieces Ry Ry had set, clipping them to the webbing looped around my chest. As I sucked in breath I decided that if I were to continue doing any multi-pitch climbs, I would first do some endurance training.

"I see your helmet! You're almost done!" came Ryan's cheerful voice from the second, and final, belay station.

I smiled. I smiled wide.

Bear hugs are a great way to finish off a climb: especially when the person you are hugging helped you overcome your fears and doubts with only his smile.

The Space Station

Suddenly I am aware of my ability to be broken; what it is to have your bones break and muscles tear. The wind howls and accentuates the height from which I look down. I hear Dad's words echo in my head: "Never climb up what you cannot climb down." I should have listened to him. I am not that far up, only twenty-five feet or so. But numbers don't matter when your gut is in a knot the size of your miniscule mortality.

I have been climbing for twelve years and have never bothered with free-soloing (climbing without a rope). There was never a desire to be above the earth without the security of 10mm rope between you and the forces of Gravity. Yet, at the moment, Gravity is chuckling and tugging at my faith in climbing shoes, taunting me as pebbles trickle past me into the air.

Then from behind the wind comes the words of my little sister, whom is perched comfortably next to me. She tells me to only focus on my next move. Breathe.

My life, when looked upon from where I am, seems too big, too real, and entirely incomprehensible. There are too many choices just in front of me that could lead to pain or to a shattering of my existence as I know it. Am I looking too far ahead? Why do I feel that whatever I choose next will be my downfall?

Joshua Tree has always been a place of clarity for me. I come here expecting to feel refreshed and renewed. But as I look down at the granite below and picture my broken body in a bloody mess, I don't feel clear-minded.

I don't know where I shall go in life. By the Laws of Time I am projected forward into my future whether I make a choice or not. So...

I scoot forward, heels pushing my back into the rock behind me. I watch where my little sister (mountain goat that she is) places her feet, her hands. Tears make it difficult to see, but there is no going back now. The wind dies down like a gift of courage. My toes reach a ledge wide enough to stand on and I do: I stand. Relief washes over my face in hot little streams. My sister hugs me, confident and beautiful as always. Joshua Tree is still our home, not our deathbed.

What next? I am not ready to answer that question yet. I can say that I will make it through whatever comes at me; when I do make a choice I will live with the consequences. One day I truly will face my mortality and I will succumb to it: that day was not today.

Heroes

Sometimes our heroes are people we've never met before. They come to a bouldering competition that you are working at and they limp up to you with a cane. You look down to see one ankle wrapped and the other foot adorned with a climbing shoe. He is smiling.

Sometimes heroes don't even know that they are heroes. The obstacles they are overcoming may be insignificant, or they might be mountainous. Whatever it may be, that person, and what and how they are fighting resonates with your soul.

Sometimes a downtrodden warrior will rise above the obstacle in his way; he might hobble up to the wall, take a deep breath, concentrate, jump, and then stick a dyno in front of a roaring crowd. He lands gracefully on his one good leg. He smiles; and I smile with him.