The price of friction is pain, and pain puts ambition to sleep. Frigid wind stings my face, burns my lungs, turning my fingers and toes into blunt instruments. Soon all I want is a warm cup of coffee and a seat by the fire. So it often happens that the worst of winter passes, and with it many missed opportunities to climb my best. Then comes the month of March which never fails to awaken my gratitude for those fruits of winter which have been numbed by the prolonged coldness of bones. A melting stream seems suddenly sad, like the crumbling stone of an ancient wall, and my faith is renewed in the simple act of watching. In this twilight of seasons the usual thrill of discovery is tempered by the knowledge that nothing is owed to me. It may be warm in April or cold in May. I can only take what comes. Such was the atmosphere of my mind this past spring as I began to try the Monster Project.
The boulder juts from beneath a thicket of shadowy rhododendron like the prow of a ship run aground in shallow water. In this forest, stripped of old growth trees, the twisted rhododendron spreads in malice. It cannot be destroyed. Burned or uprooted, it will always regrow. It grows while I sleep!
You won’t find it on you own. My guide was a local prospector, Nathan Draughn. Even so, I was hesitant. I’ve often been lured to a boulder by the light in someones eyes, only to find it devoid of magic. Inspiration is not a science, it doesn’t work the same for everyone. Under the spell –truly under it– I am transformed into a child in a garden where every tiny detail blossoms with the invitation of something deliberately hidden and waiting to be found. In the end, I was too hopeful to fear disappointment. Talking about the “monster project” did something to Nate’s face, and I wanted to know if it would do the same thing to mine, so we went. This was not a case of love at first sight, but with each exposure interest grew until I was caught up in a fit of curiosity. The upper section of the climb was unveiled first.
My right hand found a flat edge in the quartzite vein, my left worked its way up a series of progressive underclings. I tried to let the weight settle back into my feet before pouncing across the sagittal plane of my body to deliver the deathstrike. I don’t know how many days it took me to link these few moves together. I’ve lost interest in counting. Does an artist count the pencils required for his masterpiece? He only counts them if he dislikes the drawing.
The lower section of the climb remains a mystery. If the top is constrained by a lack of feet, the bottom presents many possible sequences, each of which, like dead ends in a maze, must be explored before they can be disproven. Sometimes I went alone, sometimes with friends. Sometimes I thought a session would be my last, then the days would turn cloudy and cool, delivering another opportunity. When summer came I had no regets. Even this development was strangely exciting, like saying goodbye to a friend I made while on holiday, knowing we may never meet again, but that if we do we shall be better able to enjoy each other. With these words I pull the sheet of time over the object of joy to keep it from moth and rust which destroy, in the hope that we will meet again. Not the same. Better.
