Living Openly, Vibrantly, Exquisitely

The sky cracks and swirls with a thundering rumble that sends a delicate rain sweeping into our faces. Six backpack saddled climbers, grinning from a weekend on the rock, squint their eyes against the fluorescent headlights as they trek along the misty highway. They are dusty pilgrims, searching in darkness for that beloved bus stop. And yes, the gargantuan trucks sailing through the night are their own personal thunders storm.

What more can be said for a weekend in the mountains than all that is encompassed by this one word: rejuvenation. It implies the peace of a mild sun reaching its way through the morning fog. It conveys the striking rebirth experienced upon achieving the highest move at the end of a beautifully challenging climb. It combines passion with majesty, with energy with stillness, and it still has room for the quiet mystery of life’s own beauty –a mystery that a young woman of twenty-one years can dip her fingers into through the fort examination of a red cactus flower. These are the words and experiences that give us much to write about and even more to ponder, but somehow leaves us comfortably empty at the end of the day; as contentedness seeps through our pillows, our eyelids quietly wilt into sleep. May the city stress and urban exhaust hover far from the mountain spirit.

The rock could crumble and the routes are hard, but we constantly retackle that mental game as we strive to overcome the imaginary limits. The area’s called Desplomelandia, or “The Land of Overhangs,” which means that, as we pump our rhomboids and biceps in an effort to propel ourselves upwards, the friend with the camera has to crane his neck backwards to capture a feat that ascends literally above his head. Perhaps more exciting still, our unexpected falls send us down in magnificent pendulums and lowering off of that last clip dips us into an empty expanse, shared only by distant clouds and far off bushes. Our belay partners are perched upon a sloping rock formation and, as they drop us down into that pool of air, we sometimes find ourselves scampering back upwards to meet them. Safety is a given, but the adventure is there.

That day on the ropes gave way to a night of tents, the latter pierced by laughter-imbued pasta and the soft tapping of rain. Rise and shine to a dim foggy morning, and with our spirits high, we sally forth to a glorious rock. And yes, we all smell spectacular right about now.

Riding back on this bumbling bus, I think of the people I love. I dream of sharing these mountainous wonders with those who mean so much to me –in a tent, in Yosemite, with no phones. I dream of living for weeks at a time in a dimension much slower than our own. And now I’m thinking of all the people I’d thank for their part in bringing me to where I am now. And all of these names that roll off of my mind fall like happily-trodden steps through that lovely, mountainous landscape:

Oma, Allen, Vivi, Mom, Esteban, Alejandro, Nials, Robert, Mary HS, Elsbeth, Professor Wood, Jewels, Dad, MaryEllen, Will, Dave, Professor Dave, Mary Jo, Megan Houpt, Emily Jo, Chris Fry, Uncle Mike, GG Jerry, Summer, Allison, Nick Booster, and (just for emphasis) Robert, Mom, Dad, Uncle Mike, Oma, Nials, and Mary Ellen.

In many different ways, all of you (and many others) have helped bring me to where I am now. You may not even know how you have helped me along, but my love and gratitude go out to you any which way.


May peace always be your home.

Love,

Jocelyn