A Family of Trees Fallen to be Haunted

What a bizarre weekend. 

Not only was it much cooler than expected (predicted) but the air quality was downright frightening.  I couldn’t help but think to myself- as I was perched comfortably on this giant granitic/amorphous/basalt anvil overlooking a perfectly lapis lazuli lake of serenity-is this what it’s going to be like in 25 years?  In 10years?  In 5years!!??  As the encroaching haze of nearby wildfires eerily crept across the sky and filled the air like some ghostly premonition of future fall out, it was hard not to imagine that this could be the norm for generations to come.  The air pollution is already so bad in parts of the world it’s easy to overlay their fates onto ours.  Of course the air pollution we saw this past weekend was as a result of the devastatingly dry climate we have come to know for what has seemed like the past 12 months (instead of industrial progression, the fallout of forced warfare, or the ravaging of ecological fecundities). 

While it is true that there have actually been LESS forest fires this season than an average year, the fact that overshadows this triumph is when you take into account that there has been MORE acreage burned this season compared to an average season.  Less fire sounds great, but the ones that have started have burned with a concentrated intensity and burned for longer.  Not good, and thus we are greeted in the morning with an eerie haze that lingers for the entirety of the day.  The light that does make it through this smoke screen is effervescent and sexy, tangerine in its affect and blood red in the mornings and evenings, providing the table setting for a creepy atmospheric malaise; the backdrop of violence and apprehension.      

The cooler nights and mornings I greet with open arms spread wide under my comforter that has now become a permanent staple of the flora of my bed.  I think I stowed it away for what seemed like it would be an eternity back in May when we got hit with our first taste of what this summer would consistently bring us.  Now my favorite part of the day is wiggling under the layers and burrowing out a comfortable niche as the evening sets in and the cool air becomes abundant and embracing. 

Holy shit!!  Is that me?!  With hair (sort of)?!  First trip to Leavenworth circa October 2007.  That's Dom attempting Crimpsqueak (V.7 in the old guidebook now V.8 in the new guidebook, I always thought it was hard for the grade).

I just picked up the new Leavenworth guidebook and was completely blown away.  Amazed, stunned, impressed.  It has been close to eight years now since I bought the first addition and strode unknowingly into what would turn into a full blown addiction.  But it is more than that, more than something I seek out to get a fix.  It has become the lens of holism I use to look at everything in my life.  And I haven’t donned those spectacle in a while.  Flipping through the guidebook carefully trying to take in all the new additions and blow life into the memories of old, I was reinvigorated!  I am in love with how photos and beta can bring me instantly back to the times that really formed my true identity and star struck fascination with climbing.  I truly do miss those golden October days cloaked in crisp Autumnal sunlight, framed by the brilliance of changing leaves and vibrant lucid colors.  Three things strike me when I think of those first few trips to Leavenworth: 1) camp fires at the end of the day, radio, beer, embers. 2) puffy jackets, chalk flavored pants, thin skin, time stops. 3) dry dusty trails and crisp tacky granite edges and slopers.  Sending in the twilight as the sun sinks behind the ridges of the icicle. 

Check out the wicked widows peak I was rocking back then.

These memories are all so visceral and spasmodic yet concentrated and beguiling.  I can remember my first trip to Leavenworth like it was yesterday (ugh, I hate that saying)! 

A perfect Sunday afternoon in Tumwater Canyon.

We stopped at the very first boulder we saw in the icicle right as the sun had dropped and the environment was seeped in a dim fading light.  The three and a half hour drive coupled with the barely tolerable sensation of expectation and electrifying excitement was too much for us to pass it by.  The Fridge boulder.  We got three quick sends in before it was absolutely too dark to climb anymore and for the time being we were sated.  Those memories are fantastic, and the fleeting intensity of those moments is comforting and mesmerizing in a kind of tranquility that temporarily helps me lose myself and become detached from the present moment and lost in the solidifying amber that signals the permanence of the past. 

I had to try the Beach Arete on my first trip.  Not sure what was up with the bandana though.

 

Yet it is not only the places I visit or the climbing that fills my head with euphoric tumbling, but the faces and the energy of my companions within this collection of memories that also breathes life into them. 

Witnessed success and failure imbues the carrier with dramatic inclinations.  The solidity of evaporating honesty frozen in time.  We can neither believe ourselves, our eyes, or our feelings, but drink in the minutia of the day like a heavy stout; slowly, with intense focus and a steady relaxation of the mind.