Going back to cali
by We didn't write this
It was my last climb of my last day at Smith. I started up a slightly slabby wall, painfully crimping the familiarly small edges. By the third bolt, my feet are screaming. There are many, many bolts left.
I maneuver the “crux” of the route, pulling over a lip. I find myself getting hoplessly pumped trying to rest on an akward half pad edge. I am 12 feet above my last bolt, which isn’t visible, down and around the corner.
I start to panic
Above are 2 slopey holds facing the wrong way. I struggle to come up with a sequence on the fly. How the fuck do these holds come together??? There has to be a way!
I locate a big foot between my knees. That’s it, a higher foot! I hike my foot up, grab the first bad hold. It feels slimey. I lunge for the other bad hold. I stick it for a second, letting out a sharma-esqe scream, wanting so badly not to fall.
I fly off, whipping around the corner.
I am on “The Last Waltz.”
It’s a 12c.
Fucking Smith…. God damn this place is sandbagged.
Trees are blooming in Portland. Every once in a while, a scary, bright ball of flame pokes through the rainy mist cloud surrounding the city. I think they call it “the sun” in California. I don’t know what it is and I don’t trust it.
I think I will always have a special place in my heart for Smith. And if that goes away, at least the permanent scars on my fingertips never will…
I’v quit my job as a consultant. To those that have been billed 200 dollars an hour for my services, I am sorry.
On Friday, I am going on a week long mission to Zion. The psyche is high to get all up in the beautiful red walls of this magical place.
After that, I am moving permanently to San Fransisco.
Thanks for reading,