Stupid fucking Prius! I shout to nobody in particular as I’m forced to slam on my brakes. Keith is asleep in the seat next to me, he doesn’t even notice. We’re rocketing down the back side of Cajon pass on I-15 heading back to LA. Not quite home to LA. Just back.
What happened to me? I think as I glance around at the hundreds of cars swarming around me. Each with their own passengers, on their own journeys, with their own lives. Why am I so angry? These people aren’t out to get me. That Prius didn’t cut me off, he just wanted in my lane more than he wanted to wait for me to pass. Like all people, they weren’t being malicious; just too wrapped up in the own world to safely navigate mine. Oblivious, not evil. It’s a good thing to remember, it helps keep you sane in a city of 10 million people and rising. It’s too easy for this city to make you hardened and angry. That won’t do.
The pass levels out, cars merge and swerve around me. And suddenly from behind a hill comes the lights of the city. The darkness of the desert is replaced by the fluorescent glow of all those 10 million people. I can almost hear the buzz. And it’s then that a thought pops to mind. It’s clear and simple, and I know it to be 100% true. Just as I knew it to be true the first time it entered my head five or more years ago.
I don’t belong here. I think. This isn’t my home.
True. So true. But then again, where is?
It’s Saturday morning and I can feel a mosquito biting my shoulder. I glance down to watch the little creature suck my blood, but I don’t dare make a move to swat him away. Don’t take your hands off the brake. I think to myself. I grip the rope a little tighter, just to be sure.
Above me Ian maneuvers his way up Man’s Best Friend (5.7). Below me the ground drops away 90 feet to the gully floor. I can look out to my right and see the entirety of Red Rock Canyon State Park. Massive cliffs give way to barren scrub desert, and through it all little people clamber from their cars, snap pictures, yell at their terrible children and drive on. Do they even know we’re up here? I think to myself.
“Clipping” Ian calls down from above.
Automatically I feed out the rope to him. I’m pulled back into the moment. Standing on the side of a cliff face, half way up my first multi-pitch route. I want to do this forever. I think to myself. Maybe I’ll never come down. Maybe I don’t have to.
But that’s dumb. Of course we do. The route isn’t that high, and we don’t have any food.
It’s Saturday night and I’m still basking in the glow of my first multi-pitch. First anythings make you feel special. But then again, so does the wine I’m drinking. People mill around me, drinking, sharing stories of the day’s adventures. I chat with a half dozen people, and only realize later that I can’t remember any of their names. Somebody lights a fire and the whole scene glows orange. Somebody starts playing the guitar, it’s probably Adam, it’s always Adam on the guitar.
Outside our little campground the desert fades to black. The conversation turns to Sunday. What’s the plan? What’s the next adventure? We could do anything. Out here, away from real jobs and real lives we could be anything. Well, maybe not, but it feels that way. Or maybe it’s just the wine.
Tomorrow I’ll drive back to LA. I think. Not home, just back.