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Khruangbin and Lord Huron to headline Outside Festival. Otto's Route 5. I looked in the mirror. Soul patch. Face about to either sneeze or cry. This existential crisis was sheer torture! We climb to live, you dumb ass! Climbing has the power to take lives. Leaning Tower took Todd Skinner, four days before his 48th birthday. Yet for all the stories about lives lost to climbing, there are many, many more lives that have been saved by climbs.
This is a story about one of those lives and one of those climbs. Sure, I had the rippled washboard abs of a desert commando, but I was also renting a byfoot basement room with no windows. Sometimes I went out.
OK, I had some friends. There was Chris, the bartender at a Mexican restaurant where, several nights a week, I ate my dirtbag dinner of complimentary chips and bean dip. Holy shit, did she not shave her armpits? Turn on! Was I lonely? I suppose. I guess I had a crush on her. I also had a crush on the following: any female nice enough to speak to me.
Ever since graduating college, a year and a half earlier, my carnal senses had lain volcanically latent as I roamed the sexual wasteland called the American Climbing Circuit.
But only after spending enough time chaining it up with all the Lost Boys of Yosemite, I considered the possibility that I had made a mistake. Everything was replaceable, nothing meaningful. My only real friend was Dave, my college roomie. Dave had grown up in the nearby city of Grand Junction, and now lived in the adjoining farming town of Palisade, where, post college, he had become a winemaker. A most unusual twist, I thought, but cool.