Saturn’s Last Orbit
For five years, I lived the dream. I traveled. I climbed. I slept in the back of my station wagon sandwiched between the wheel-well and four boxes of climbing gear. The ceiling light dangled from the wires for a few years. I called it my chandelier. I ignored the dilapidated state, dreaming of something better. I mean, have you ever had sex in the back of a Saturn station wagon?....yeah…me neither.
The Saturn in the desert
In April, I drove my Saturn into the Valley. My car rattled with character. The driver doors only opened from the outside. A Berkeley hood rat keyed the door lock a few years ago making the vehicle accessible with a pair of scissors. The back smelled of the over 1,000 nights I slept inside of it.
As I passed Reed’s Pinnacle, the motor cut. I tried to roll start my car. No luck. I tired again. Still no luck. I coasted downhill for five miles before pulling to the side of the road. I towed the car to Yosemite Search and Rescue, where Werner and I pulled the spark plugs, kicked the tires and vainly used defibulators on the rig. The Yosemite garage mechanics charged me all my money, $400, and then announced the vehicle’s death. I ignored my abysmal financial state and went climbing. My life was falling apart, but I dreamed of sending. I was almost there.
Blood poured from my elbow. Twenty-three pitches of slab and offwidth fatigued my muscles. The nine hours of climbing left me staring at the boulder problem on the Freerider. Three bolts and eleven moves set between me and free climbing El Capitan in a day. I grabbed the holds. I wrapped my thumb around my finger. I pinched the granite loaf. Over 30 days on the route, the June sun beat me. I squeezed harder on the granite. I pulled harder. I fell. I tried again. And again. And again. The first trickles of red stained the rock from where the granite split my fingertip. I was too run down. I would not see my dream through.
I wanted to untie and jump. At the very least, I wanted to sink into the ground. I had no car, no money and no home. The only thing that fucked me all spring was El Cap.
Most of the climbers call the company Last Chance. Two old school wall climbers hire a bunch of climbers and vagrants to perform the graveyard work that no one in the park will do. Desperate for cash, I worked a night shift cleaning out trashcans with two derelicts, a convict and a pornographer. At 2 am, we emptied the trashcans of burger wrappers, ice cream sandwiches and dead squirrels with tampons in their mouths’. Then we scraped three inches of ketchup slime from the trashcans. I told my boss about graduating from UCSC with a degree in economics and business management. “Good” he said, “you can be in charge of everything that’s not important.”
After 3 weeks of this amazing job, I had enough money for a time bomb with wheels. I decided to get something that screamed masculinity, something that would double my condom budget, something to declare my manhood. I bought a mini-van.
Mason Earle, a climbing friend from Yosemite, helped me build a bed in the back. I bought three inches of foam and lined the bottom of the bed. I loaded down my rig with thousands of feet of rope, climbing shoes, a crash pad, a rack and a few clothes. I made my new home as comfortable as possible.
I drove to Canada. I had no money when I arrived but I parked my car below the Chief. I started climbing. A few weeks of Squamish granite and I would return to El Capitan. My life held a bit more balance, my car less dilapidated. I held fast to my dreams. They would come true.
First published in California Climber
