Friday, December 7th: Tom and I set an alarm to start an early drive towards San Diego. Our first stop when we arrived that afternoon, was Mission Gorge State Park. This is the most accessible sport climbing near the city and sits in the sun all day. We expected to enjoy anything that wasn’t Joshua Tree, but even on different rock, weren’t at all impressed. Uncomfortably polished surfaces dominated the area, resulting in the two of us fussily slapping and kicking up a few routes. The last of the three was the most challenging, perplexing and frustrating both of us. On the bright side, it was a great way to be outside and appreciate the sunshine and warm air. That evening, we made our way towards a parking area where an acquaintance had suggested we spend the night. Eddie, a guy we met while in Glacier National Park, offered his phone number and any help we may need while in San Diego. He no longer lived there, but knew the area well and could give us helpful recommendations and tips. Following his advice, we pulled up to find a congestion of campers and vans. Initially reluctant, we approached a couple sitting outside their RV to inquire about the numerous signs that prohibited overnight parking. They kindly reassured us, saying that they were not routinely enforced. With that, we found a flat spot, where we made dinner then worked on projects before finding restful sleep.
I woke up, thankful for the undisturbed peace and quiet that allowed for a placid night. The sun poked it’s way through the sides of our insulating canvas, representing a day waiting to be lived. I laid in bed for a few more minutes, contemplating the many things that I wanted to accomplish. With a city park directly behind us, I walked to the public bathroom and was surprised to see so many people out on a weekday. As I approached the camper, planning to grab my yoga mat (my tangible symbol of productivity) it occurred to me that it was Saturday. This realization felt like permission to let go of my checklist and exist more spontaneously. Recognizing this change of mentality because of what day it was, brought specific means by which I operate to light. It was a positive reminder to assess my thought process when making decisions, rather than choosing only what feels accepted. Seems obvious for someone who quit her job and lives in the back of a truck right? With this new perspective, I continued, now without my subjective value system. After slowly making breakfast and organizing the camper, Tom and I headed to the beach. When we arrived in Encinitas, he rented a surfboard and anxiously plunged into the ocean. Uninterested in joining, I took off for a run and enjoyed the perfect weather. As I wrapped up 5 miles, I returned to the truck to grab the supplies for a picnic on the beach. I began stretching in the meeting spot that Tom and I had agreed on, and not long after, spotted him emerging from the foamy wash. He approached with a child-like grin, his long hair dripping salt water onto his shoulders. Although an amateur, his wetsuit and under-arm board could have fooled fellow neophytes into assuming his proficiency. Based on his countenance, I was surprised when I asked him how it went and he responded with: “Not well”. The waves had been unforgiving, continually sending him into forceful whirlpools rather than fluidly carrying him across the water’s surface. Despite his physical exhaustion, frozen toes and water-logged inner ears, he was in good spirits and welcomed the opportunity. As we sat to eat lunch, careful to avoid eating too much sand, two wet, shaggy dogs ran over to greet us. We were surprised to see them since dogs weren’t allowed on the beach, but they were too cute to shoo off. After a few minutes of giving them attention while simultaneously guarding our food, we began wondering where their owner was. Eventually running off, we heard a lifeguard through his mega-phone announcing the canine prohibition. The two of them continued gaily trampling the tide, without any sign of their human. Tom and I laughed at the situation, as if it were a corny movie playing right before our eyes. That night we watched the sunset and made dinner before heading to a local dive bar for half priced pitchers of beer.
Waking up, parked on the streets, usually means starting the day by rushing to the nearest bathroom. After moving the truck to a nearby public beach area, we utilized the facilities and started making breakfast. As I cut potatoes, I could hear Tom conversing with someone who was interested in our travels. I stepped out to introduce myself, curious who this person was based on what I had overheard. He was a “trader” named Ted who was also a homeless traveler. I found out quickly that his motivation for speaking with us, apart from killing time, was the hope of vending his goods. Both of us were put off but followed him to his car anyway. We followed him over to his beater Honda Accord, Tom, openly irritated, and me, trying to be polite, completely unsure of what to expect. In the back of his car, he opened the truck and pulled out a few brown, paper bags. Each one was less than halfway filled with instant oatmeal, granola bars and plastic baggies holding two presumed homemade cookies. Trying to keep a mocking smile off my face, I asked him what he charged per item. He responded by saying that he didn’t have a set price, but was hoping we could pick out $10 worth. Unless you’re shopping at Whole Foods, his entire cumulation wasn’t worth $10. Thanking his for his time, I handed him a few dollars and wished him luck with his travels. Tom and I joked that we would then ask him to come look at our stash of merchandise, and offer to sell him our leftovers and partially used rolls of toilet paper. We spent the afternoon sitting on the beach, soaking up the rays in anticipation of heading north. I finished reading my Dad’s novel while Tom looked for housing opportunities. As it started cooling off, we made a last minute decision to head begin heading toward Death Valley. We had initially planned to drive halfway and stay at a casino, but when we pulled up, were informed that overnight parking was not permitted and continued on.
We had set early alarms on Monday to give ourselves enough time for the day’s planned activities. We had slept two hours south of Death Valley and drove the rest of the way while the sun boasted a beautiful rise. After entering the park, we stopped at the sand dunes, where Tom made breakfast while I went for a short run. I returned, having had so much fun running on the sand and convincing Tom that we had to go play in it. After breakfast, the two of us walked out to the ridge of one the tallest dunes and rolled/ran off it’s steep embankment. Left with queasy stomachs and woozy heads, the consequences were worth succumbing to our care-free, inner child. Covered in sweat and sand, we were back in the truck and on our way to Red Rocks. Since we already knew the area, we figured we would spend a few of our last climbing days in a place that we enjoyed. We climbed at Dog Wall, where Tom redpointed a tough 11b called: “Here, Kitty, Kitty”. That night, we made dinner in a park, then spent the night parked in a nearby neighborhood. It took a while for me to fall asleep, paranoid that each resident was aware of our intentionally covert inhabitance. I remember lying there, thinking about how badly I would miss almost everything about our trip; living in the camper, spending so much time outside and the allowance for so much physical activity. What I knew I wouldn’t miss, was going to sleep without the thought of whether someone would wake us up and ask us to leave. To some, this may have been an issue of demoralization, but to us, was solely a displeasing inconvenience.
I woke up on Tuesday and had no time to spare before finding a bathroom. With Tom still half asleep and the camper down, I drove us to Red Rocks, him riding in the back. Too proud to look up directions, I took multiple u-turns before finally admitting to my navigational deficiency. As soon as we pulled up, I ran to the restroom, always grateful to be behind a door and on a toilet. We spent the day at The Gallery, which offers a wide variety of grades and all-day sunshine. It was at absolutely gorgeous afternoon and Tom and I genuinely enjoyed the climbing style. On top of everything else, Alex Honnold’s girlfriend made an appearance halfway through the day. She and her friends were just down the wall from us, making it easy for me to spy without noticeably staring. The entire group was well trained and exceptionally impressive. I didn’t want to bother her, but was also too shy to approach her and her friends, something that I now wish I would have done. As the day continued, I began feeling a rising sense of dread. It was partially due to the disappointment that I felt about my performance that day, but was also a reaction to the realization that our climbing season was coming to an end. Climbing has horrifically tested my bravery, deeply challenged my confidence and has constantly humbled me. My callused fingers and tight shoulders remind me of how much I’ve given to the sport, but also how much it has served me in return. The very instance when I have felt prodigious, it has forced me to take a back seat. When I have discounted my small victories, it withdraws my big ones. And every time I have completely given up, it has offered me a new day with a fresh slate. All hard learned lessons, but worth every uncomfortable and heart breaking moment. That final day at Red Rocks felt like I was saying goodbye to all of that, forgetting that it would all be coming with me. Tom and I drove to St. George that night and slept in public land right of the main highway. I battled with my thoughts about what the future would hold and what truly mattered. After dinner, I laid my yoga mat and pillow out onto the gravel, gazing up at the brilliant glitter of stars while snuggled in my sleeping bag. I knew that I needed to get out of my head, but had locked myself up in my unknowing. Tom was eventually lying beside me offering the comfort of a companion who has never wavered in his unconditional support. The combination of nature’s stillness and the love of a best friend began to soften my tight grip. As I opened up, we dove into a few existential questions with the sky accentuating our insignificance; an unfortunate but appropriate cliche.
Comments