When I think about where I’ve been in the last year the most vivid memories are those that I experienced in the midst of physical exertion.
Canyonlands
I’m in Canyonlands National Park. It’s a crevassed expanse of red and brown and tan banded sandstone. You might mistake it for an alien planet when you get in deep and you can’t see anything but the high walls and deep canyons—a landscape utterly unfamiliar.
I’m chasing a zealous Czech. What is he zealous for? Exertion.
Martin’s a former pro bicyclist, and an avid adventure racer. Right now though, he’s just kicking my ass. I’m running after him in zigs and zags. Around that boulder, through this narrows; the walls nearly touching both my shoulders, I hold my fingertips out as I enter the red, cool hallway, caressing the walls as I run through. Martin ducks the low branches. I jump the stream as the path winds. We move like we are native. We are nimble, riding on our legs as they move powerfully beneath us.
The Czech will not tire. I am inspired. We’re in single-track now, the path too narrow for two to run abreast. We’re running on softer soil than the decomposing sandstone of a moment ago. It’s the fertile loam of a riparian zone which hugs and mirrors the small stream that runs through this desert, this runneled and channeled soft rock. We are animals frolicking. We are reveling in the youth and strength of our bodies.
Cresting a hill of monolithic rock, we stop short so as not to fall into the valley that comes sprawling to our feet. The stream has found its way around the rock we have climbed, and we see what we have been running in. The scene is laid out before us: the lush riparian green is complimented by the red rock. The effect is bold. Our path leads into this valley. We strike out, down the hill, rejoining the single-track.
We are running, running, always running. Breathless at times, but always exuberant in the surreal landscape we encounter. The bare, naked calico rock beckons. It begs us to explore its curves, undulating and breathing, enticing us. The rock holds the promise of revealing something, but that something is never quite revealed—the essence of sensuality. Our bodies rise and fall as we run, tracing the forms of the great rock. We are so small. We run on.
After Six
After Six, 5.7, five pitches (approximately 500 feet). Mike’s friend Thomas already ran some laps on the route, and he is telling us the conditions are good, and it’s been nice so far today. Mike and I are slipping into our shoes, and fastening our chalk bags around our waists.
I’ve never free-soloed before. I’m nervous, but I’m optimistic in my abilities—a feeling that almost passes for confidence. Thomas leads off. Mike gives him fifteen feet, and follows. I do likewise. We begin climbing.
Instead of feeling foreign or strange, it feels incredibly natural; free-soloing. With no rope, no harness, no gear, I move unfettered. A rhythm of movement develops and I can feel the way I am supposed to move over this rock, with this rock. Moving steadily, I’m aware of Mike and Thomas above me, but as I begin to concentrate more on the climbing I move into a mental space that blocks out most of the world.
We use an alternate start that is only 5.6 or 5.5, and we aren’t climbing anything harder than 5.6 the whole way. The terrain is easy, and that’s good because I’m nervous and awkward in my movements. I’m not focused enough to shut out everything; I scramble a bit just to keep up with them. They seem to be walking up the rock. I’m trying to climb it. I feel like the little brother. I tell myself that I can’t allow my pride to force me to climb faster than my ability, I tell myself about the danger of chasing them. There are big ledges along the way at the bottoms of each pitch. Most of the time, a fall will be a serious injury, but probably not fatal. Regardless, the whole climb demands to be treated as a no-fall scenario.
Thomas disappears, then Mike. They’re pulling over the lip, summiting. I’m close behind.
On top, the view is magnificent. Yosemite is majestic (one of the few places I’ve seen that requires the use of a word like ‘majestic’). It is one of those perfect days: temperature, breeze, light—all perfect. What do you want me to say? The light is bouncing off the thousand foot grey granite walls like they are mirrors—big, grey slabs of mirrors. That light is deep yellow and orange, and it’s shooting beams through breaks in the horizon of granite as you’d see in a painting, but this is real. The sky is blue, with clouds thick and full as they can only be in the rich air above the Sierras.
So, the sky is blue, and white clouds. The sun is a low afternoon sun that’s blazing in glory. These colors are absorbed and refracted by the rich grey of the tall granite. That granite is hung above a soft, green floor of coniferous trees in their summer best. All of this is spread out before me, for me. The sky comes to me as a soft cooling breeze. I have reached into the rock, placing my hands and feet into its faults. I have felt everything, seen everything. I feel very connected this place.
A Long Walk
I spent 6 hours on an air-conditioned bus. From Phoenix, AZ to Huntington Beach, California. By contrast to what I knew I was about to do, I felt ensconced in luxury. I had everything I needed on that bus; a comfortable place to sit that was mine, food and water, a bathroom in the back, and a book to read. My human needs were taken care of.
I got off the bus, shouldered my pack and walked six miles to the home of the family that allowed me to keep my belongings with them. There, I repacked my 50 litre pack to be as light and minimalist as possible. I knew I had a 25 mile urban hike ahead of me. I took only the bare essentials, and left everything else behind. I was bringing clothes for a California Autumn, a poncho for rain protection, and a sleeping bag.
After 30 minutes I had repacked and set off on my hike. It was late in the afternoon, and I passed through the south-eastern neighborhoods of Los Angeles like a ghost; seeing everything, paid no attention by anyone. I walked north, into the night. I became weary and decided to pass the last five hours of darkness in a drainage canal under a bridge in a heavily industrial area. All night, lights and buzzers from the factories that peered into the canal kept me awake.
I slept fitfully.
I was awoken; discovered by a man in silhouette. I sensed he meant me harm. Everything felt off, though, and I couldn’t move properly. My heart started to pound, pumping adrenaline. Then I woke up, my pounding heart the throughline that connected the dream to reality (there’s always a throughline). Everything looked the same; I dreamt my dimly lit overpass in perfect accuracy. I searched the area to ensure I was alone. The rest of the night I felt haunted, though I was not visited.
In the morning twilight fog rolled up the canal, moving slowly, it was mysterious and foreboding. I had had enough hiding down there; I got up and packed quickly. Walking up the steep, ramped sides of the canal, I felt I was ascending to the world of the awake, and the living.
Traveling on foot early in the morning, I witnessed the workers streaming into the factories. Walking on, I came to the residential area of this city, and saw the children going to school. Again, I went unnoticed: just a stranger, no one’s interest.
My destination was a bike shop, where after walking 31 miles, I intended to purchase a bike and ride to Santa Monica, a 40 mile ride. I arrived on Tuesday, to find that the bike shop was open 6 days a week—even on Sunday!—but was closed on Tuesdays. Excellent.
I bought some KFC (I could afford a high calorie meal by now, to speak nothing of my finances). Then I walked an additional 2 miles or so and found a quarry that seemed disused, again, it was in an industrial sector. By this time, having walked over 30 miles in a 24 hour period, I felt quite tired and my feet hurt.
The quarry was fenced off and appeared no longer to function. I hopped the chain-link fence right next to the sign that promised $500 fines and criminal charges for doing things like hopping the chain-link fence.
I walked along a dirt road away from the industrial area and bedded down next to a felled tree limb, and above a steeply banked hill that fell away from the road at about a 30 degree grade.
Lying in my sleeping bag, I’d startle at any unusual sound, paranoid I’d be found out. I was suspicious of every movement, any unexplained noise. Then I woke to this sound: softly crunching gravel, the consistent sound that betrays the rubber of a wheel as it rolls. I looked down the road, expecting headlights, but there were none. Was I hearing things? The gravel glowed red, but only for an instant. Was my paranoia making me delusional? I thought it must be in my head, so I stared at the road like so many bewildered animals before they meet blunt trauma, trying to make sense of my confusion.
The truck began to crest the hill, 25 meters away, and I understood in an instant what had happened: there was a dip in the road as it approached me. The truck was traveling at engine-idle speed, and its lights were off. As it descended the dip, the driver had momentarily applied the brakes, and then the truck and its sound were hidden from me by the near crest of the road, which the truck was now surmounting. By the time I realized this, I was also simultaneously picking up the four corners of the poncho I use for a ground cloth (with everything I owned laid on top) and scurrying down the bank.
Barefoot, I was thankful the ground was covered in soft, dead leaves, though they made my footing insecure.
I scrambled behind a bush and a downed limb, and stopped about 20 feet below the road. I wanted to breathe deeply—to catch my breath. Instead, I held it. About 10 seconds had elapsed since I saw the truck cresting the hill.
Now I couldn’t hear the truck. Then I realized; it had stopped, about 5 meters from where I had been sleeping. The doors opened, and I heard faint voices, unintelligible.
My heart was racing. I had to breathe, but I dared not to move. I exhaled. My breath carried a prayer that they wouldn’t hear me. I couldn’t see them, and I prayed they weren’t looking for me; that they were only here coincidentally, on unrelated business.
They seemed to arrange something in the bed, maybe even dump something—I couldn’t tell. Then they got in the truck and backed away, as slowly as they came.
I waited a while longer to ensure they wouldn’t return, then I returned to the road. I barely slept that night. Instead, I passed the darkness in vigilance and found a park in the morning where I could snooze unnoticed until the bike shop opened.
