I feel sorry for the people on this plane. Well, in particular the clean shaven, good looking, tatted up boy sitting next to me. I smell like a desert rat. Filthy, grimy, dusty, good times clinging to my body after another long weekend of climbing, campfires and a heavy dose of tequila. It wouldn’t be right without the tequila or the filth. The filth… I love it. The post trip grime that settles into the pores. It makes me feel alive.
In one of my lower moments of late, after what could only be described as a pathetic on-line encounter with another scummy boy just looking for ass, I shuffled around my house, restless. 10:30pm, drunk and ego bruised, as his excuse for ending our date was that his dog had diabetes and he had to get home and give him an insulin shot. Really? You can see why in my ego bruised stew I decided to take a good friends advice and book a flight to Hueco… before I sobered up. I had only a fraction of a second where I thought I might regret the $200 dropped on plane fare but the feeling of the desert was conjured up quickly in my body as I retraced the moves of my last trip to Hueco. Some way or another I needed to feel that movement again. And like it or not I had just signed up for another desert adventure. Trading in the scum for the filth… In my mind there is a difference.
It had only been about five weeks since I had been there. Since leaving I had been stewing over Uncut Yogi, a super classic V6, with an incredible knee bar sequence that got me so psyched… Thank you Martina. I was blessed with climbing for 3 1/2 days with the amazing Abbey Smith and Vanessa Compton, two desert dwellers that I immediately fell in love with. I hammered out the days sending a variety of grades, with a visit everyday to Uncut Yogi to work out my beta for the top of the problem. Each day I got closer as another key piece of the puzzle would fit together. On my last day at dusk, Tammy, a fabulous Hueco guide, took me back for the final send burns before I had to leave. I got my high point but didn’t get the send. I did take a full value body slam into the pads going for the second to the last hold. I pounded my fists on the pad in defeat, smiling and giggling at my efforts. There were several others that chuckled at the grunts of the Burro-corn too.
I am grateful for the humbling lessons of the desert. Not sending makes me yearn even more for grimy dusty days followed by crisp nights, highlighted by the fire and Reese’s peanut butter cup s’mores. The desert dweller culture, so alive and vibrant, gritty and dusted with the pop of the seasonal locals. I can’t lie that I was sad to get on the plane to leave. I wrestle constantly with my nomadic urges, my love for the dirt, the careless bathing, the days planned around send attempts and optimal rest. I love it so much that I did not even care to wash it off before boarding the plane in the morning. Sorry once again to all the poor souls that had to endure the smelly aftermath of my restless desert dreams.