I used to sleep, or rather not sleep, in tents, or rooms in the country with windows but no curtains, and imagine them sliced open with long claws, strange men or the will of the piercing wind.  I’d lie down with clothes on, ready to bolt, fall almost asleep with the light on, but then switch it off real quick because, horrors, when I can’t see them, they see me.

I’ve been hanging out with climbers since I was a little kid. What I’m about to say is born from my silent observations as a shy 12-year-old, to deep conversations murmured over campfires in the wilderness, to the stories my students share with me weekly.

There is no optimum state on my horizon, nor am I there now, nor do I plan on figuring out what it is.

I don’t believe in optimization.

So many people want my secrets for a better head.

What’s the fastest way to get better as a climber? Is it developing strength? It is refining your technique? Is it getting a really hot boyfriend?

Climbers like to think of themselves as functional people.

The Happy and Sad boulder gardens in Bishop were born from fields of ash that flew out of a volcano seven hundred thirty thousand years ago.

Part of what keeps us climbers moving is dreaming about what doesn’t yet exist, what hasn’t already happened.

The harder you climb, the more people look up to you.