It’s been a solid couple of years since I posted anything
here, and I’ve turned into somewhat of a nomad since then. I’ve discovered climbing
and highlining, and grown to crave the giddy triumph and inner
tranquility I feel after overcoming mental and physical hurdles. I’ve found myself amidst the most genuine, caring, guiding and
inspiring community I can imagine. I’ve spent winters in the mountains, lived
in deserts and on caldera lakes, watched eagles and owls leave the nest. I’ve
spent nights on top of mountaintop glaciers, and lain back as stars sprawl over me and dry lightning sets the sky alight. I’ve rediscovered outdoor education and faced a
completely contrasting set of challenges and dilemmas. I like to think that I
handled them well, that I learned and that I grew.
I’m notoriously bad at staying in touch with people when I’m
out of town, so as I set out for another summer of fun, my goal is to post here
regularly whenever I encounter the interwebs and have a functioning compatible
device. In the meantime, I’ll leave you with a journal entry from a night atop
Smith Rock in mid-April…
The cliff glows burnt silver, stark, in-your-face. Regal.
Black shadows cleave her surface. There is no middle ground.
The world has turned ethereal. A pregnant moon glows,
blazing milky light over the junipers. I turn away, blinded, small lights
skittering across my vision. The desert feels softer, friendlier. Sage,
stripped of green in the sun’s absence, gently brushes my fingers as I amble
downward toward the river. A breeze plays across my bare shoulders as I wind my
way upward between boulders after the crossing. And as I rest atop the summit, gazing westward
across the plains toward the mountains– as a patchwork of clouds begins to
shroud the slowly eclipsing moon– the rock, rough beneath my body, welcomes me
home.
