Routes I’ve soloed roll off the tongue in a parade of vague remembrances - Equinox, EBGBs, MRSR, The Vampire, The Pirate, Romantic Warrior, Sea of Tranquility, Shikata Ga Nai, Ghetto Blaster, Swamp Thing, The Palisade Traverse, of Death and Panties, and thousands of others, each an adventure of their own. Those California climbs mix with routes soloed in Vegas, Utah, New York, Colorado and 20 other states, which blend into adventures in Canada, Mexico, England and Ireland. Living in the past I could relax, but that would mean giving up what I enjoy the most, which is living now and aiming toward the future. Like all climbers, I have my projects and dreams, each a new standard to test myself against. 

Something stirs in the bushes and the boys perk up their ears. Their fur stands out; their nostrils flare. In the darkness, just out of reach of my eyes, like a peripheral ghost that refuses to come into focus, that something freezes. Bailey snarls when I toss him into the house. Mountain lions and coyotes prowl these hills, and the little fuzz ball is barely bait. I turn toward Reno, ready to tackle him but realize I’m too late. Four legs have crouched back, loading the springs in his knees and time stops. In moments like these, the senses don’t just open up, they envelope everything. It’s one of many reasons why I solo. 

My mind races back to the thousand routes I soloed in 30 days at Joshua Tree. It was my Everest in the desert and supposedly impossible. I’ve been told that many things are impossible, but my friends and family, the Outlaws, refuse to acknowledge such nonsense. We refuse to live our lives based on someone else’s limitations; we live life based on our expectations. And these expectations soar with every season.