I realize I’m holding my breath. The exhale cracks like a starter’s pistol and Reno unleashes himself into the night. I run after him, cursing under my breath as the bushes swat at my face and tear at my clothes. A path opens, up and I start to gain on him. A coyote yips ahead of us; Reno responds with a throaty growl; I laugh like a maniac. Three feral beasts lost in the hunt. Suddenly, the barks stop and catch up to Reno, a chill crawls up my spine. Single coyotes lead dogs astray until the predator becomes prey, as the hidden pack of coyotes circle for dinner. 

Every route soloed is my coyote. Enjoyable to chase and admire, but I have to always be cautious that I don’t go too far and find myself surrounded by trouble. Those routes in the resume were done after years of physical and mental training. I’ve also walked away from climbs my wife could do in heals, because I live for the adventure every solo provides, even the ones unfinished. 

Reno’s fur distends completely, making him three times bigger than any of the coyotes. I pull the trump card of being human and howl as loud as I can. Reno does several false lunges, and the pack decides to find easier game. As they disperse into the night, Reno and I share a shiver from the adrenaline that readied the body to perform beyond the mental paralysis of fear in order to stay alive. We’re victorious for surviving, but humbled to remember that not every coyote is an easy chase. I’m reminded that not every climb is a quick dispatch. I can never be complacent, so I train harder.  

Life, like the climbs we partake, is a series of moments that makes the palms sweat. As climbers, we are all an exclusive band of misfit children the world will never understand, but among ourselves we share these stories over pints and around campfires. Here in the modern age, I look forward to sharing a pint with all of you around the campfire of this blog, but hang on tight because the last 10 years were just the warm up. It’s going to be a helluva ride.