it's a big rock...

Back from another weekend at the center of the universe with plenty of stories to tell.

Walking off Higher Cathedral Rock as it grew dark I felt as dry as a Utah Juniper in August. Half way up the North East Buttress route my partner and I had consumed all of our water. Thankfully, the second half of the climb was in shade, but those chimney surely make you work up a thirst! At the top of the tenth pitch I caught up with two of our friends who were climbing in front of us. Luckily, they had one mouthful of water to share.

After bringing up my partner I screwed on my head for my eleventh and final lead of the day. That last pitch brought a wide hands roof, another cruiser 5.9 roof (the fifth of the day I think), and one final chimney! Leading such a long continuous block of climbing really allowed me to enter into an amazing head space. No wonder climbers are always looking for longer routes and link-ups. When you get into that magic climbing zone the feeling is pure joy!

Anyway, after thrashing through the bushes to get back to our shoes at the base of the route we were worked. As the final light of the day faded I considered the coming boulder field and slippery trail. So thirsty! Hadn't had a drink in hours. By the time we made it over the boulders and onto the final stretch of steep descent over roots and rocks I was feeling pretty sorry for myself.

But then...

I started thinking about a conversation I had at the elementary school where I work. My young kindergarten friend had cut her finger. She was fretting at the pain of washing it out with soap and water. Tears were starting to show in her eyes. Remembering the way she screamed and cried when a lady bug landed on her another day I thought I would try a new approach.

What if I could convince her that the pain was not that bad? That a cut was not worth crying about. Was she too young to categorize pain into a manageable little box? I don't think my experiment really worked for her. She couldn't seem to understand why I wasn't comforting her with words and hugs that she wanted.

Now hiking in the dark I was myself the same question. Can I categorize my own pain? My own confusing thirst and fatigue. Why was I complaining to myself about my dried out tongue and tired limbs? Having all of these thoughts about my own suffering was not doing anything to alleviate them. Slowly I started to direct my mind elsewhere. I thought about others who had really suffered. People crushed by the arm of brutality. Heads cracked and arms broken.

I began to categorize the sensations my body was sending to my mind. They were manageable. Normally I live in a world of comfort where everything and more I could want is all around me. I had just climbed up a 900 feet of difficult granite rock and I was worked. But really I was already on my way back to the road. The car. The water. The comforts of civilized life.

I realized I wasn't really suffering. I was just a little tired and thirsty. Shortly I would be back. I decided to enjoy the pain. I took control of my thoughts and remembered the view of the high country from the top pitch. I imagined myself inside a chimney perched on a chock stone high on the wall. Happy. Climbing. Entering a new mind.