Frozen Beauty, Uncertainty, Home

Lying tangled in repose with a man I love I listen to the rain outside and ponder my next move. His breath comes steady and even; he is holding my hand made strong by crab pots, bait jars, and ice tools in his own brutally strong hand even as he sleeps. The coffee maker burbles and the aloes and hanging plants and orchid and sprouting seeds gather energy from the soil and grow. The room is full of cleanliness and morning light. Juniper is intent on a spider on the wall, acting like a kitten this morning even as she pushes eleven. I stare at the walls of a room that has become home without seeing. The impression left by frozen waterfalls and a few thousand miles of road and sky leaves the image of ice before my eyes, the feel of a solid stick or secure hook, the negative space of sunset over Hyalite or the Bridgers. I recall the steady feel I have leading, the worst screaming barfies I've felt on a subzero day, recall watching my friend and climbing partner work through the delicate moves of a mixed climb. Recall one crampon point on a tiny shelf of rock. The warmth of wood floors after a day in tight-laced boots. Chris and I laughing our heads off at radio shows about dolphin invasions, stuck rednecks buzzed on Bud Light wanting us to tow a Dodge Ram 2500 out of the ditch with a Toyota Tacoma, self-important climbers, ice fishermen, hipsters, posers, and everything ridiculous that crossed our path. The relief I felt after a quick call to the captain of the crab boat I no longer work on, the surge of possible futures flooding back in with the knowledge that I was now jobless but free, that focus on mountains was once again a possibility for me.

This early winter has seen the last death twitches of my attempt to work in the Dungeness Crab industry. I have won the respect of several in Westport, but have never made the kind of money which justifies time away from climbing, the ability to plan trips, regular training, friends, the home I am creating from the chaos of others' transient creativity, serious writing, such a nice kitty, and a man whose weird, unique, honestly original persona is coaxing out a true, long-buried innocent side to myself that I have not honored in this last wild decade of action and exploration.

Intent and drive. Dreams and strength. Direct honesty with myself and others. What else do I have, do any of us in this overpopulated outsourced world have to hitch our lives to? My closest friends tell me in ways which befit their different systems of understanding to let go and trust the world. I have been strung so tight for so long, a string playing a discordant but singular note, ready to snap and coil. Endless scheming, endless planning. They are sick of hearing it and I of saying it. Allow your life to unfold as it will, they say. You are on a good path. I want to fight, to claw and scratch against this, but I have a waning desire to rail against the world. My energy is for mountains, for creating a good home.

Bozeman, Jackson, Seattle, Alaska. Twitchy, nervous, chewing on my fingers and thinking of the ice I'm not climbing, I hold onto Michael's strong waist as we walk and agonize: where is best? What work is best? Wet cedar, slick oil and dormant lavender perfume the city night. My love says, tall and powerful and elegant on the rainy sidewalk, that Hunter S. Thompson once said it was all in the whims of the great bizarre. I look up at his sharp nose and goatee upturned in the drizzle, then lay my head on his chest as we walk to an unknown destination. The Cascades brood across Lake Washington and his arm is around me. For once, I am not alone in the night.