Lucid Puma

Mark is gone. 

The words echoed in my head as the dry Nevada wind burned against my face, carrying those familiar fine grains of sand. I stood and stared at the orange painted door that led to my childhood home, for a moment, the memory of its bright hue and brilliant color stood in all its glory, like it once had.

A muffled shout broke through the closed windows and the door before me was once again the faded and peeling door of my present.

Another sound caught my ears, and, with a steadying breath, I stepped forward and pushed it open as I quietly entered.

My two remaining brothers sat at the kitchen table, faces hardened and creased, a few sheets of folded paper between them. 

“Lovely! He split up everything evenly between us. But what good is that?  There was nothing to split! All he has is debt!” My oldest brother Tommy’s voice bounced and echoed off the kitchen cabinet, his chest heaving, and his hands closed in tight fists.

Jake slammed his hand on the table. 

“Calm down, won’t you! At least he had all this figured out. Not many people his age have a will. He’s in a better place now, and he’s out of our hair.”

His words puddled quietly before the brothers as silence filled the space. I was thankful he was still willing to negotiate. Of the four of us, he was always the peacemaker. Jake took a focusing breath and started again. “He’s not asking for an expensive funeral. He just wants to be cremated and his ashes taken to the top of Lucid Puma.”

“Where?”

“Well, I don’t know. It’s one of the climbs in the canyon that he used to do.”

“Are you kidding?! Who’s going to do it? We’ll have to hire someone from the local guide service…”

“I’ll take him,” I blurted, the words sneaking out before I could fully process them.  

Tommy and Jake both snapped around and met my steady gaze at the same time. Suddenly I was a teenager again, caught in the middle of another argument. I took a deep breath, kept steady and returned the incredulous stares.

Tommy’s head tilted back, his nose rising.  “Well, well, well. Look who it is. Mister businessman himself. Nice of you to show up now. What has it been, 20 years since you’ve been home?”

“17.”

My instant response was met with blank stares.

“When’s the last time you climbed?” Jake asked, his tone gentle but careful.

“I don’t know,” I shrugged, trying to make it look casual. “8,10 years, I guess.”

“And you think you can climb this, fuzzy cat or whatever it’s called.”

“Well, I guess … I guess it’s like riding a bike, you know. I mean, it’s what Mark wanted.”  My voice trembled.

Tommy leaned back in his chair. “Did you know about, you know, his situation.”

A lump welled in my throat.

“And you never came back. To try to help him. This whole time.” Tommy’s voice rose, his words thick with accusation.

“He didn’t…” My voice trailed off.

“Typical. Just run away from everyone. Nobody cares, you know. He didn’t have any friends left. No family besides us. Let’s just put his ashes on the mantle here. I mean what’s the difference any-?”

“No.” They both paused and looked at me with wide eyes. “I’m taking him. If I can’t do it, I’ll pay someone else to. Where is he now?”

“At the funeral home. Cremation is scheduled for tomorrow.”

“Ok. I’ll pick him up from there and take him. Do you want me to bring him by so you can say your goodbyes?”

“We saw him this morning and made our peace.” Jake paused and sighed, running his hands down his face, suddenly looking tired. “Things around here really went to shit after Mom and Dad died, didn’t they. What about you, how have you been? Are you staying long?”

“I have to be back in Boston in three days.”

Tommy chuckled. “Oh! Of course you do. Ok, go then, like always.”

I nodded and looked around, perhaps for the last time, before turning and leaving.

The memories sat heavy in my heart. There’s so much I wanted to change, there was so much I could have done differently, but this would have to be enough.  We spoke often after I left. I loved our conversations and he always loved to hear what I was doing, what my East Coast life was like. Every call ended with a reassurance from him that he was fine. Only a small part of me ever really believed that.   

The first step was gathering the gear I needed for tomorrow’s climb. I would need to get a helmet, chalk pouch, and rappelling equipment, along with a pack and climbing shoes. These items weren’t hard to find in a place like this, and soon I had what I needed. Finally, I picked up Mark’s ashes. I had climbed Lucid Puma before, we did it together on Mark’s 18^th birthday.

I arrived in the canyon the next morning before dawn. A few stars were still visible in the slice of sky filling the gap between the canyon walls. The cool night air, thick with memories, whistling through and singing its early morning song. 

Mark’s ashes were secured in my pack with my rappelling gear while my chalk pouch dangled from my belt. I dragged my right hand on the cool sandstone at the base of cliff. The coarse grains bit through my skin, now softened from years of office work.

Come on, runt? What are you waiting for?

A small smile pulled at my lips and my eyes stung as Mark’s phantom words called down to me from partway up the wall. He was an excellent climber, with the skills to be one of the best. Strong, fearless, persistent.

I tried to keep up, and became pretty good myself, but Mark was always a step ahead. Climbing was more than a sport to him, it was an experience he reveled in time and time again but sharing it with me was his greatest joy. He never raced to the top, never left me behind. He was always looking after me.

When I left, I never looked back.

The ache in my chest grew denser and for a moment, my vision blurred.

The first rays of the morning sun and the early morning bird chatter pulled me back to the task at hand. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, letting the symphony of the new morning wash over me.

I got you, bro.

The whispered words seemed to ease the tightness and I straightened.

Lucid Puma was not a long climb, possible in 4 or 5 hours, but it was challenging. The only path traversed two large slabs, separated by a small arete, with an overhang just before the summit. It was more technical than many of the other climbs in the area and could only be done free solo. 

I chalked my hands and began searching the rocks for my first grips. The craggy sandstone revealed pocks and bumps as my extended fingers wrapped and clutched the grainy rind. My left shoe filled an opening in the rock, and I was off the ground. A crack a few inches above my left hand provided my next grip, and another solid foot placement pushed me further. My right hand extended in the desert air, finding another edge in the rocks. My muscles flexed and I rose further. Just as my eyes scanned the rocks for my next grip, my hand broke loose. 

My body swung away from the canyon wall as my opposite grip held for a moment, until it slipped away.

My knee crashed into the rock wall, and I rolled back on my hip before landing on the canyon floor. 

I had made it three feet. 

I stood and brushed the dust from my clothes. A small stream of blood trickled down my leg from a cut on my right knee. A sudden, unexpected rage rushed forward.

I lunged after the rock wall again, firmly grabbing it and stomping my feet into place. Again, I rose off the ground. 

Come on, dumbass, what are you waiting for?

My feet and hands pressed into the gritty sandstone, each grip firmer than the last.

Soon I was 10 feet up the rock wall, becoming more comfortable with each step. My measured breaths gave way to a steady pant, my muscles already burning, and my face wet.

The lightly worn path led through the first slab, to the base of the first technical section, a thirty-foot corner known as Bear’s Elbow. My ankles and knees flexed and hooked around the edge, finding adequate holds, as my hands slid up each wall. The fingers of my right hand curled and dug into a small crack, enough to begin. My body dragged against the coarse rock for a few inches, before I placed my hands and feet again. Stretched against the jagged sandstone to maintain balance, I crept up the wall. My soft hands, once hardened and calloused, seared with pain. The sandstone grains grinding through my skin with each grip. 

Beads of sweat gave way to steady streams. They poured down my face and dripped off my nose and chin, immediately painting the orange sandstone a deep red, before evaporating in the dry desert air a few seconds later. The unrelenting heat above the shade of the canyon made trying to wipe the sweat away a futile exercise. 

I found a good place to rest against the rock for a moment, as soon as I stopped moving my muscles screamed at me, my clothing plastered to my body. The cool, refreshing water in my bottle provided a brief respite. I gulped down as much as I could, then squirted just a little on my face, washing the stinging sweat from my eyes. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.

The sandstone cliffs shimmered in the morning sunlight. Rich shades of orange, red, and brown, spotted with the occasional gray, blanketed the canyon. The vibrant hue was further accented by patches of green vegetation. A clear sky capped the landscape, the deepest blue I’d seen in years. 

I gave all this up, for a busy Bostonian life, perpetually caged in small white rooms filled with artificial plants, photos of distant places that nobody ever has time to visit, and desks covered with countless sheets of paper requiring endless shuffling. The only discernable end being to line the pockets of our precious clients.  A life that squeezes everything out of you, replacing it with nothing. 

I made that choice.

But here, now, the worries and stress melted away in the desert sun, none of it really mattering. I took one last drink from my water bottle and, while trying to put it back in my belt, my right foot slipped. 

My weight abruptly shifted, sending me into a skid across the jagged rock. The water bottle left my hand as I frantically reached for something, anything. The loud metal on rock sound reverberated through the canyon as my water bottle crashed and rolled to the hard ground below. My hands and feet stretched in every direction, grabbing at any small protrusion or grainy surface. The coarse sandstone dug into my leg and face, shaving the skin bare before opening long gashes. Pushing through the pain, my fingers curled desperately into the rock, digging into the gritty surface. Every part of me squeezed closer to the rock, cutting deeper into my skin. 

I somehow managed to halt the slide, only falling a few feet, but it left me stretched too far. I would need to adjust to regrip, but any attempt threatened another fall. I hung there, my bloody fingernails boring into the rock as my arms trembled and my knees shook. 

You know you’re screwed now. The only way down isn’t good. 

This time there was nowhere to run. There was no safe, cozy office job a world away I could escape to.

Mark had saved me countless times before and all I had given in return was a thousand broken promises.

But not now. Now it was time to return the favor. 

I guess you’re just going to have to suck it up and get moving.

My fingers began moving, inching their way up the wall to a better position. Instincts that had been dormant for years began to emerge as I found a hold and slid into a better position. From there, I regained solid footing and kept moving. One grip after another, one foot hold after another. My movements became more calculated, more precise, more focused. Soon I had moved above Bear’s Elbow and was over halfway through the climb. The next slab was tricky, but it didn’t slow me down. 

Above the slab was a section of angular sandstone bisected in several places by open cracks.  Above that was Wolf Overhang, the most treacherous part of the climb, with the summit immediately above. 

I was almost there.

The cracks provided dependable grips and footholds, moving me ever closer to the overhang. My right hand disappeared into a larger crack, searching for a hold. As I scanned below for a foothold, a rattling noise spilled out of the crack, piercing the silence of the canyon and drilling into my ears. An unmistakable sound. 

My skin roiled with goosebumps, as chills bolted up my spine. I ripped my hand out of the crack. The momentum sent me into a barndoor swing away from the rocks. I scrambled to find a grip, anchoring onto a smaller crack. The swing halted. My eyes scanned the formation above me, searching for a way to get around the snake. My shaking hand slid into a new location, along the same crack but a few feet away from my initial grip. As my fingertips moved into the crack, the same rattling began, this time louder than before. I pulled my hand down again. I would need to move laterally along the wall. Far enough away that the snake would allow me to pass. My feet shuffled along a ledge in the rock wall, toward what looked like a smaller opening about 10 feet away. The snake remained silent as I inched past, narrowly escaping the encounter.

What remained was the overhang. 

The route up was familiar, it was the most memorable part of the climb when the two of us did it years earlier. A series of open fractures in the otherwise monolithic overhang afforded safe passage but demanded focus and strength. The slanted ledge under my feet was no wider than a steel beam, just enough for a rest. 

My arms stretched as I tried to calm my quaking muscles, now the consistency of jelly. I wiped away the sweat that coated what felt like every part of me and chalked my hands. The summit awaited.  

I locked in each grip and foothold before pulling myself up, my movements now calculated and precise. Near the edge of the overhang, I hung for a moment, my feet loose in the desert breeze. 

Mark may be gone, but, at that moment, I had never felt closer to him. 

I swung my feet around and hooked my heel atop the sturdy rock, then slapped my hand around a crack, the light from the midday sun breaking through from the summit. My muscles flexed for one final pull.   

I emerged atop the summit. Harsh breaths pushed their way out of me, and every muscle seared.  

We made it. 

I gingerly sat on the rock and looked out across the landscape, basking in the moment while the canyon grinned up at me. 

It was in that moment that I understood. He wanted his final resting place to be where few could find him. He wanted peace.

I pulled the bag out of my pack, opened it and watched as his ashes caught the wind, forever mixing with the grains of orange and red sand that ride the wild desert breeze. And it was then that I felt that peace, the one Mark sought, settle over me. My eyes burned but my heart lifted. No more running. No more hiding. This was where I was meant to be.