As Leon Bridges flows out of my Macbook speakers, I feel inclined to write. Earlier, I was reading an old entry from my journal. The concluding paragraph ended with "written on the shores of the Bow River, under the mighty north face of Mt. Temple". Immediately, I looked at my surroundings, and thought of the mundanity of attending school and pulling on plastic holds.
My room wasn't so mundane anymore as my daydream developed. I felt the icy water rise up my legs as I tried to cross the river to an island where I spotted an abandoned beer. I felt my makeshift writing desk of logs shift every time I pressed pen to paper. The summer aura had begun to dry my soaking short shorts after my futile chase for alcohol. I was beerless- the current was too strong, or perhaps my legs too weak. The light in my Calgary room turned into a bright Rockies sun, beaming on my tanned skin.
Though my soul may be there, and my mind occasionally drifts toward that rocky valhalla, I am not there. Instead I am no longer paying rent, and the staple of my diet isn't complimentary peanut butter from the Chateau cafe. Rather, I am enjoying home cooked meals. I play basketball with my friends, party with the same old people, and am living a classic "senior year" lifestyle. Obviously climbing is still integral to my life. Training takes up a healthy amount of time and money in the gym, and every decent weather weekend is spent with friends, making the pilgrimage back to the limestone cathedral. Cold hands are warmed around a campfire in between climbs, and there is never a dull moment or a lapse in psyche. These days remind how special life is, and how simple the ingredients are to make happiness: friends and passion. Usually, these weekend escapes end sleepily, listening to music as the sun sets in the rearview. Soon, I'm back in my bed, in a desk, or in a basement with solo cups and mediocrity creeps in. The phenomenon of feeling anxious and uncomfortable in a controlled and familiar environment is an odd one. My words will not justify the thoughts that swirl in my mind. But I will say this:
A bivi bag is better than a bed.
The final hours of an alpine epic spent stumbling home with a mind fogged by exhaustion, is far superior to the final hours of any party.
"Watch me," sounds better thousands of feet up and delivered with fear than it does in a classroom demonstration.
In order to further my thesis and truly live up to my hipster stereotype, I will quote John Mayer. "This house is safe and warm, but I was made to chase the storm." As humans, why do we build ourselves prisons that we constantly try to escape from? This question pondered my mind on one of the fall drives home from the mountains. While constantly craning my neck to see the sunset over that sacred land, I realized something. If you have to crane your neck, you should just turn around.
