Summer Solstice
"You're gonna send this." Scott's words hummed in my ear one afternoon at the base of our route.
Scott and I have known each other for a little over a year now, and within that year, it almost started to feel like a decade of friendship. We met in Red River Gorge and have been inspiring and supporting one another on our projects since. His presence boosted my confidence and I tied in. He pointed to my bowline knot, laughing that he had no idea how to check it. Up I went, traversing left and standing high to take a look at the next move.
"You need higher feet," Scott called up to me. I know, I know, I thought silently, and slightly annoyed.
Out loud, I asked, "Do you put a piece of gear in before making this move? It's kinda scary to commit with no gear yet."
Scott nodded his head in agreement and said that he did not place anything. "Kathy," he said. "It's your climb. You do whatever you need to do."
This was my second time attempting a 5.11. I should have felt more nervous, but armed with confidence from onsighting Carbs and Caffeine a day prior, I didn’t. I felt secure. I stood up and the move felt really mellow, just like Scott said it would be, all the way into the left-facing corner. High step. Watch your feet. Breathe. I balanced myself by grasping onto tiny little crystalline holds with the tips of my fingers. A thin horizontal seam was enough for the tips of my toes to stand on. Moments later, I came down from the anchors that The Stand and Frustration Syndrome (5.10c) share and Scott gave me a high five. Smiling from ear to ear, I had sent my first two Gunks 11s that weekend.
On the last day of the summer solstice weekend, we rallied and woke at 3:30 a.m. to climb the first pitch of High Exposure (5.6) by headlamp. Arriving at the Grand Traverse ledge as the sun began to greet us, I silently noted that this sunrise seemed to be in a league of its own. Maybe it was because it was the solstice day, or because I hadn't climbed High E in quite some time, or maybe because summer was approaching (and this past winter had felt particularly long.) Day and I shared coffee and croissants at the top as we watched the cedar waxwings begin to rise before we continued on to rappel back to the base.
Being in the Gunks at any time of the year can be awfully magical, but the thrill of watching new daybreak on that June solstice day was something I will never know how to put into words.
There are certainly moments in my life that don't always immediately scream out, "Wait! Pay attention to this. This could be important." and so, I try and hold onto them and not let them fall through the sieve of my memory. Some won’t always come with special tags or knock on your door saying, "Special delivery!" And it’s these little moments, I’m finding, that if you’re not careful, will pass you by.
Life instantaneously becomes a sum of your history in the blink of an eye. Suddenly, I’m forty—maybe I’m married, maybe I have a family and a career and one of those cute little electric water kettles and a mortgage and a heavily stacked Google calendar. And then, I’m sixty—reminiscing those sweet summer days climbing cliff lines before dawn and eating breakfast pastries on ledges with friends long since gone.
Photographs courtesy of Day Acheson