Driving the seven or so hours from Georgia, I found myself holding the steering wheel like I was crimping down on a sandstone hold. The wife, meanwhile, highlighted the crap out of the Red guidebook, marking climbs that she thought best of us to do. Anticipation always make the drive go longer and less fonder, but we were getting out of town and the sack of guilt I’d packed was beginning to feel like a bag of fallen leaves. 

Not cherishing the thought of setting up the tent in the cold and dark at Miguel’s we opted for a civilized first night at the True North Outfitters Hostel. For what you normally pay for a good, cheap breakfast, you can sleep the night away in the cozily rustic lodge and have a breakfast of eggs and pancakes in the morning too. Dirtbag excuse aside, the missus lacks the ability to deal with the cold, which has pretty much shut down any dream of climbing in Alaska or Greenland for now. 

In the morning I took my coffee outside in the morning sun to acclimatize to the Kentuckian air. Sitting on a piece of timber by the road (warning: unsightly Southern stereotype ahead) I basked in the weak November light, pleased to be here, and even more happy to know that we would, within an hours time, be roped up and climbing. And then, over the rise of a hill came a beat-to-shit pick-up truck with three men in the cab. As they passed, gunning the engine loudly, the man in the passenger side looked out the window at me, giving me a grin that would send the hairs of a hound standing on end. It was the kind of menacing leer that downright hollered, “Boy, you best squeal like a pig.” 

As the hillbillies disappeared around the bend belching smoke out the back I suddenly felt rather fruity. Dressed as I was in a down Marmot coat, women’s pile Mountain Hardware beanie, and Evolv approach shoes, to them I no doubt stuck out like a sore thumb by the side of the road, a climber/nature enthusiast/queer-ass vegetarian/pinko Californian commie. And I wondered what it was like to live in Eastern Kentucky all your life. To hunt coons at night and make moonshine with gramps out in a secluded holler by day and then begin to see all these climbers mob the area with no other purpose than to go up and down the rocks all day. It would seem strange to me too, I guess. 

Soon enough, though, the wife and I made our escape out to the Muir Valley Nature Preserve, a private tract of hollers and hovels owned by Liz and Rick Weber who have over the last few years turned the place into a climbing paradise. Named after John ‘o the mountains, there’s a plaque in the parking lot that says John Muir was this country’s original climber. That climbing allowed him to get into beautiful spots that only lowlanders can dream of. Something like that. And all true, especially as you clip into one the Valley’s anchors and fondle the scenery before lowering off. 

We chased the sun around walls all day, never encountering another climber. We could only hear them yonder, grunting up the steeps, the overhangs, the forearm pumpy roofs. Ending up at Slab City by afternoon we flashed a delectable 5.10b that left me fulfilled, whole, mentally nourished. Just the right amount of solid crimpers and unruffled footwork for my off-the-couch constitution. I could have climbed it again, but Caroline had more highlights to tick off. 

Always the same at the Red. Climb hard all day and when the sun goes down, amble down the road to Miguel’s for pizza. If only life could be so simple every day of the year. Looking around at the healthy crowd inside and the array of tents pitched out back, I wondered if all these climbers were orphans or if their families had died tragically. Had they forgotten that tomorrow would be Thanksgiving, that they had been born to two mostly loving parents who were wondering where they were? I could picture it now: a man and a woman sitting at a table in a lonely farm house in Indiana. “You know, Bertrand, ever since our dear boy Johnny started clamoring on those rocks, we haven’t seen much of him anymore. Shame really. He might as well be dead to us.” 

That night we headed up to a new campground perched on a ridge on the former site of a flea market. We figured it would be warmer than down in the valley where Miguel’s is squatted. And because the puddles had frozen solid the night before and we only had our summer bags we thought this prudent. We knocked on the office inside a huge airplane hanger to be greeted by Dave Terrill dressed in pajama bottoms and a flannel shirt. Dave invited us inside out of the cold. His mother, Betty, sat in Lazy-boy chair watching the History Channel. She looked up at us with palpable motherly love, with eyes that were as clear as the local creeks. I straightaway adopted her as my own surrogate grandmother without telling her I was doing so. We were home for the holidays.