These Are Your People

When I was in high school, my mom decided that my sister Lindsey and I might like to throw a pool party for our friends one weekend, so she reserved the neighborhood pool and told us to rally the troops. It was a great idea in theory, except for the fact that when it came time to actually invite people, neither Lindsey nor I had any luck whatsoever. The day of the party the only guest that showed up was one that Mom invited, and it was our grandmother. Don’t get me wrong, we had a great time swimming with Grandma, but it was still a sobering display of our lack of popularity.

I had a great childhood even in my most angsty and awkward of teenage years, but I was certainly never one of the cool kids; not even close. It wasn’t that I had a problem making friends, I was just surrounded by people with whom I had absolutely nothing in common for the first 17 years of my life.

Fast forward a decade or so to present day. After a few weeks in Indian Creek, I had settled into a comfortable groove. One evening I found myself milling around Creek Pasture, making dinner and waiting for the rest of my fellow dirtbags to return from their day of climbing. It had been a memorable one already, with a large group rallying to support a birthday challenge where my friend Andy wanted to rack up 30 pitches for his 30th at the Pistol Whipped crag. I had taken a terrifying fall on some small gear on the Montana Weed Connection which all ripped out, leaving me just a few feet off the ground when moments before I had been halfway up the short pitch (the video of the whip can be found here). I sent the thing two tries later, making it my second 5.13 on gear of the season/year.

Making cheesy faces on the Montana Weed Connection

A large sprinter belonging to my fellow Washingtonian Lucas that had been parked next to me for several weeks pulled up in camp, and the door slid open, but none of the crew inside seemed to be getting out. I asked what they were doing and they told me to get in the van; they were going to go climb the South Six Shooter, an iconic desert tower, by the light of the full moon.

My initial thought was that I’d already had a crazy day, it was a long approach, and it was pretty cold outside. No thanks. More people started getting into the van however, and pretty soon I was reconsidering. Maybe this was the kind of adventure I’d regret not participating in. My mind was finally made up when someone said to me to just get in, “these seem like your kind of people.” I probably got less than an hour of sleep that night, but it was one of the most unforgettable things I’ve done in a long time. That night we all laughed until tears streamed down our faces for hours on end, a happiness made real because it was shared with good friends.

When I was a kid throwing failed pool parties, climbing was like a secret identity that set me apart from everyone else, a private world in which I was my true self and my classmates did not exist. Out here in the desert, or at any climbing crag across the world, it is simply the air we breathe; the thing that makes me a part of something bigger and connects me to others.

A few nights later, two friends spent the day bolting a new climb at the Cliffs of Insanity. By 10:00 pm, they still had not returned to camp, and everyone was starting to worry. The cliffs have a pretty long approach, the night was cold, and my legs ached at the thought of going looking for them as we discussed all the things that could have gone wrong. By 10:30, a few people agreed to go check the parking lot for their car. When it was found to still be there, they returned and went campfire to campfire, gathering volunteers with EMT/WFR training and proper supplies to go find our friends. Just in time before leaving and much to our relief, the pair rolled back into camp with big grins and tales of their adventurous day.

While I was relieved my friends were okay, the more dominant emotion I felt that night was pride. So many people were willing to rally for the search party, many of whom barely knew the missing climbers. I think a big part of what makes Indian Creek so special is the community that forms there. It’s the single most important and meaningful thing about climbing in my opinion, far more than the accomplishments, sends, failures, etc. Whether rallying to spontaneously climb a tower by moonlight, or to organize a search party, the best thing about the desert is that it’s full of these kind of people. From those I’ve known for years, to those I traded belays with for the first time, these past few Creek weeks were made truly special mainly because of the people I am so proud to call my community.

What’s more, I bet if I threw a pool party, at least a few of these wonderful dirtbags might actually show up.

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