Personal Essay

My offwidth-wrangling mentors wore jewelry and makeup on their most difficult climbs. Five years later, I finally understand why.

Surprisingly, a different kind of fear was exactly what I needed.

For one slippery second, I was levitating on moss and prayer. No muscle, no style—just the ghost of a miracle.

I was looking through my viewfinder at the perfect shot. The move now was to not blow it.

There’s an ease to the atmosphere, a peace running through these hills—save for the steady simmer inside me, frustrated by my inability to follow in Riley’s footsteps.

I don’t remember the color of the sunrise that morning on Rainier, only that it never touched the shadows beneath the snow bridge.

Climbing was no longer about having fun—it was about fulfilling potential. I was getting stronger, but my ability to connect to anything other than my own small world had withered.

I wanted the send as much as my son. Invested emotionally in his success and full of doubt about my own belaying ability, could I be the partner he needed on his hardest route?

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