The ripple in still water.

Often, individuals, graced and burdened in equal measure, overlook the restless spirit that dwells within, urging them towards paths less traveled. They journey with a spirit that refuses to be restrained, living lives dictated by seasons and elemental changes beyond our control. Six years ago, I stood at a crossroads, unaware that my choice would shape the fabric of my young adulthood It was quite early in my life to leave behind what most deem important—like a college degree, a 9-5 job, and signing a lease. Instead, I chose to travel, and with that, unknowingly, I also chose to write. A significant lesson I’ve learned is that these monumental life decisions are not exclusively your doing but rather what life is doing to you. The places we visit, the people we encounter, and the harrowing experiences we endure are not of our doing. We are merely vessels, adrift on life’s currents, occasionally colliding with obstacles that alter our course. We do not command the river; we do not orchestrate these events. Had you told me years ago that I would eventually live out of three cars in various states, work for a ski resort, a chainsaw crew, at a climbing gym, and find that Yosemite Valley would become a place that would cause such a significant ripple in me it would alter everything, I would have called you crazy. That was a side of life I knew nothing about, a small yet unexplored fragment I hadn't had the chance to experience. There's magic in everything, whether minor or significant, and occasionally, we become part of that magic. If you're fortunate, you can impact the lives of those around you without altering your own path completely. Yet, in changing others' lives, you inevitably transform yourself.

I’ve been extremely fortunate to have gone through many accidents that didn’t end up worse. I’ve come out of them with a new perspective, a new journey of physical and mental healing.

And here I am again.

I've deliberated for some time on whether to share this experience. It's required several attempts. This narrative isn't so much about the events themselves, but rather about my emotions and ongoing reflections in their aftermath.

Rock climbing has established a core part of who I am, providing me with a purpose that goes beyond mere existence. It has always made me feel distinct, as if I were set apart from the ordinary. It fostered a sense of uniqueness, a rebellion, tracing back to the sport's origins among misfits and "dirtbags”. I’ve driven thousands of miles, slept in my car for countless days, filled up hundreds of gallons of piss, gone poo in bags more times than I can remember, gone down to my last dollar, endured endless injuries, and eaten canned food all for the sport of rock climbing. Well, it hasn’t changed much, except for the poo in bags part and being down to the last dollar. Each, for their own reasons. Throughout life, we encounter numerous hobbies. Some fade away, while others become integral to our existence. I'm certain that rock climbing will accompany me for life. Although I may not know what role climbing will play in my life, I am sure I will be climbing something. For years, my life has revolved around this passion: my destinations, the people I meet, my appearance, my conversations, and even my diet have all been influenced by climbing. However, the last six months have been different; I've been sidelined by a shoulder injury—a torn labrum. Readers of my blog are familiar with this setback. Like any determined rock junkie, I've been itching to return to climbing. This hiatus as difficult as it has been really allowed me to forge a new, deeper connection with the sport and the lifestyle it entails. Taking a six-month break from an activity that has dominated your life for around five years naturally results in an abundance of free time. Indeed, that was my experience. This pause allowed me to dedicate more time to writing, pursue other projects, engage more with my family, and improve my diet. Stepping back from what began as a hobby and evolved into a lifestyle, I gained a new perspective on climbing. Viewing it from the outside, I found it held deeper significance for me, yet its importance in my life subtly diminished.

I drove my converted 1996 Ford Club Wagon to Joshua Tree National Park on February 24th. The first time driving my van somewhere that wasn’t Yosemite. Nothing but excitement. An early rise and the day was full steam ahead, I was able to share this day in the desert with my friends Adrianna and Grant. Figuring that I am injured and should be easing my way back in, that’s what I did. I didn’t try to climb harder than I should. I was just pretty stoked to climb. We ticked off a few moderate routes early in the morning. Excitement ran through me, yet my hands trembled, and my body felt drained. Beyond the physical weakness, it was the mental battle that left me feeling defeated. I think for some people, it might be the fear of failure, fear of falling, or fear of getting hurt. It could be countless things that prevent us from performing our best. Well, in climbing, if you go soloing, and fall, whether it’s 50 feet or 3,000 feet, the consequences can be the same.Maybe not if you’re lucky. I’m not saying you shouldn’t be scared when climbing; I’m saying, if you cannot control those feelings, or convert them into some sort of intent and purpose through your climbing, then that’s a skill that needs developing. Jtree is a great place for soloing, so I’ve heard; the routes are relatively short, and you can get on top of these clusters of rock. With that being said, we decided to go solo what I thought could be considered an easy route. We walked up to the base; instantly, Grant was ready. He walked up to it and cruised on by just how I expected him to. I sat on the ground, putting my shoes on and clipping my chalk bag to my waist, watching as Grant climbed with ease. I felt confident, as Grant and I climb very similarly. I climbed up a little above 40 feet, I made a long move, and suddenly I felt my foot slip off the rock; it sounded like two pieces of sandpaper rubbing together, the thick rubber from the bottom of my climbing shoe and the gritty texture of the granite. My hand popped out, and the fall happened in slow motion. I saw the floor and I instantly I knew something really terrible might happen. In a desperate attempt to grab anything on the wall gravity pulled me down, I collided with the first ledge, the impact instantly absorbed by my ankles, causing them to twist. This led to an inverted somersault, resulting in my body striking the next ledge before ultimately impacting the ground headfirst. As consciousness slipped away, and with adrenaline coursing through my veins, I crawled towards Adrianna. Consciousness flickered like a faulty light, dimming and brightening as I tipped toed on the edge of awareness. Oblivious to the severe gash on my head and the profuse bleeding that followed, she quickly took off my shirt and began to apply pressure to the wound. Shortly after, I was rushed to the hospital in my van. Laying in the trauma center of the Joshua tree hospital I found myself with a brace on my neck, hooked up to IVs, having undergone six x-rays and a brain CAT scan. Three hours and countless tests later, the doctors were shocked at the miracle before them; no broken bones, no internal bleeding, no head trauma, and no brain damage—it was real luck. A few staples in the back of my head, bruises and cuts to my ribs, back, arms, and legs, swollen sprained ankles—it was over. I walked out of there, feeling the luckiest I’ve ever felt. I knew that I had a ton of adrenaline still, so the pain would be hitting hard in the next few days, which it did. It was truly a miracle that I did not come out with any traumatic injuries. I have fallen from 10 feet in an indoor bouldering gym on a 12-inch thick mat and snapped my fibula. I’ve witnessed a broken leg, broken knee, and broken wrist with less than what happened. I think that’s what’s really getting to my head. By the looks of it, I am walking painlessly, and possibly you would think even more fearlessly. Five days have gone by, and I have not been able to stop thinking about it, about what could have happened, why am I here, and at this rate, am I running out of luck?

A friend shared with me that upon his mother's passing, he was engulfed by a profound sense of confusion, not anger but perhaps "disconcerted" captures it best. He observed how life marched on around him—people laughing, smiling, voicing complaints, going about their daily shopping—yet for him, it was as though time, the very essence that structures his day, had ceased to exist; it stood still. Being close to my mother myself, hearing this struck me as deeply morbid truth which is why it was so painful to hear. I'm not filled with anger or sadness. Instead, there's a pervasive sense of disorientation, as if something significant had ceased to be, or perhaps was meant to. It's as though everything in my immediate world has come to a halt. Nevertheless, life outside continues unbothered. This has led me to contemplate that perhaps everyone experiences moments like these. It may not be a constant state, but at certain junctures in life, for the person beside you, for you during your darkest days, it can seem as though the world is frozen in time.