Met my friend Max at the Columns yesterday to climb with him and belay him on his project.
I didn’t get a very good warm-up, jumped on something hard, got flash-pumped, felt weak, started crying, wept, vomited, then felt a lot better.
It was 37 degrees and bright sunny on the southwest facing darkish/grayish/blackish basalt and it felt like 60 degrees outside. In January.
So even if I fell while toproping something I’ve led before, and even if Max blew two ball-nut placements on lead and he could’ve decked and totally died, and even if he didn’t get his send on the proj, and there were lots of people in a small space, and it was busy, and I got thirsty, and my food ran out, and I cried again, twice, sobbed until I retched, the day was like the lit blue of an MSR stove’s flame and just as bright, and I was happy.
And maybe I write fiction (or “tell fictions” as the Brittish call little lies), but actually, truly, legitimately, it was glory. Pure glory. It was perfect.