Tag Archives: Sonoran Desert

The Mace

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We finally got around to climbing the Mace. Well, we got around to mostly climbing it. We skipped the step between the spires, the scramble to the summit register, and the jump back across. The last section just didn’t add to the meaning of the climb. Plus, we left our water at the base, and we were getting thirsty.

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We put off the Mace in anticipation of the right weather conditions. The route ducks in and out of the morning shadows, so it needed to be warm, but not hot.

Spring finally came around, and after several false starts due to damp conditions, we made our way to the foot of the spire.

The first pitch started up a chimney, then broke left to pass a small roof.

The second pitch began as a steep hand crack. After a few feet, the angle relented and the crack branched into an easy offwidth to the left.

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A traverse left came next, followed by a bit more chimney.

At the top of the chimney, the route got weird. The way lead through a gap between a trio of towers, to a steep corner with a finger/hand crack in the back of it. But one did not need to stay in the corner. The three pillars allowed a ping-pong ascent, with steps back and forth from the corner to the other pillars. At one point, I was able to stand on top of the rear tower and take a break while reading the chalk-marks on the opposite face.

The clever options ended in a pod which tapered upwards to the critical 15 feet of the route. At the crux, the crack became a leaning, chicken-wing offwidth, made even more insecure by a bolt which proved awkward to clip and showed an unseemly amount of thread peeking over the edge of the hanger.

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A few more feet led to the top of the penultimate spire.

My son plopped down at the anchor and said, “Never again.”

Obviously, he didn’t care to lean across to the ultimate spire and jump back across the gap on the way down (the draw for most who climb the Mace).

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Neither did I, but not because I thought that the route was worthless. I thought that the route was interesting, if not good. It deserved to stand on its own merit, rather than on a circus trick at the top.

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The edge

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One hundred degrees feels hotter in the desert than it does in town. The relentlessness of the sun is part of the difference. Running in the Sonoran desert, in Summer, is unwise, but I don’t claim to be wise. It is just a few miles, after all, on good trails.

The sun is rising high by the time I get going. The first three or four miles remain comfortable, but I can feel the heat building in the air and in my blood. I have to slow down. Still, it gets hotter.

Half way around the pile of granite blocks which passes for a mountain in these parts, I feel a little adrenergic twinge. Those who have pushed themselves will understand what I mean. It is the thing that comes after a second wind in the form of a slightly panicky, angry feeling accompanied by a tightening of the skin and a little nausea.

The feeling marks a reserve opening up, but at a price. Blood goes to the muscles and away from the viscera, but also away from the skin, where it is needed to exchange heat with the air. I slow down some more, but the heat keeps building.

I am getting close now. I can see the power lines which cross the trail just a half mile from the trailhead, with its shade-shelter and water. I think I know just how much I can allow myself to speed up, and I do.

The last quarter mile feels a little desperate, but I trot into the shade in good form, with a little left. I walk back and forth for a long time, cooling down. A cop patrolling the trailhead gives me a hard look. I understand; I don’t like the idea of getting sucked into a rescue either.

I was close to the edge. How close, I don’t know. That’s the thing. You can’t know where the edge is until you are over it.

Or rather, there isn’t really an edge. Sure, there’s a last step and an end to all efforts, but that last step is in a different spot every day. You can get pretty good at knowing when you’re close to the last step, but you can never know just exactly where and when you will collapse. The uncertainty keeps things interesting. The uncertainty is motivating.

And, the uncertainty is everywhere. The same run is not the same run. Feet land in different spots, the wind shifts, the sandy dirt is soft or packed.

So it is with all defined entities and their instances. Identities hold for instances. This desert is this desert, where I run this close to the edge, but not over. That is true. This desert is also the Sonoran Desert – practically, but not really. Accepting the latter sort of identity gets me to the trailhead, but no more. It doesn’t get to the truth, any more than talk of the edge informs me where the edge really is.

But now I recall; it is not true that there is an edge, only a retrospective, last step. I’m always thinking about the edge, because it helps keep me off the last step. Knowing about the last step does nothing for me, even though it is the truth.

Or rather, it does nothing because it is the truth. It is local and transparent. I can’t pack it up in a box and take it away to inform me elsewhere and in the future. But because it is local and transparent, I must move by it. And because I must move by it, the truth is inextricable from my motivation.

I think that’s why all of us remain enamored with the truth, even though it is useless in its own right. I know that’s why I will continue to run in the desert – the uncertainty of the true, last step and the very deficiency of my edge-theory – even though it may not be the most useful thing for my health in the end, mental or otherwise.

 

 

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