Climbing, honestly, is not the thing about which I am most passionate, but it is the thing by which I am most consumed. Another winter has crept silently in, freezing all ambition into things statuesque, objets d’art to be gazed at in wonder, the entirety of autumn one far away idea to be thawed in the spring.
These months could easily be those of last year’s hibernation, or two years ago, or even, if God does exist and he is unkind, a glimpse into the future. With the first snowfall of the season I see myself as having come full circle, ready yet again for hibernation, the cold making me latent. Just over a year ago I arrived back in Boulder, and against the wind I put my head down and sank into a routine of climbing, sleeping, and reading. This year looks to be more of the same, the only difference being that the tilt of my chin is that much more severe, as I desire to climb only higher and sink only lower.
I’m mapping my days out now as far ahead in advance as I’m able, yet I spend most of my hours wanting for something to do. My calendar is a Pollock-splotched mess of gym dates and day trips, small snatches of time I’m ordering on credit from friends, from people, from anyone willing to hold my rope. She only climbs on Tuesdays and Thursdays after 4, and he between shifts at work, and the woman I met last week said she’d want to go to the gym sometime, so I’m calling her to see if she has any time eight days from now, before I leave town to camp at the base of a cliff, the only living thing in the canyon.