Religion

Chris Abney in LCC. Blake on a dangler. Jordan the contortionist.

Nothing like feeling that seismic strain stretch through your fingertips and forearms, through rhomboids and traps, calves and toes, when you hit the crux and prepare to make the crucial clip that either secures your body to the rock or sends you free-flailing--the strain of pushing through the pain of your bleeding hands, scraped knees, and torn muscles. And feeling nothing else but the exactness of that pain, the purity of each breath. It's in that moment that the world slows and you know: it's time. Inhale. Exhale. Dig that toe a little deeper. Shake out the left arm. Dip your hand in the chalk. Pull from the right. Pinch that crimper. Keep those arms straight. Breath. Shift your feet. Reach. Curse. Strain. Breath. And then...the sweet click of the draw. The security of the rope trailing the last 50 feet of rock. And the strain that melts into your muscles and seeps into the memory of your tendons. You carry that strain always, so that one day soon you'll be able to tap that reserved tenacity for a much meaner climb.

(Jes asked me if I'm adjusting since I keep writing about the mountains, climbing, etc. Answer: Inspiration comes from exile. Just call me James Joyce.)