We approach along a narrow trail, knee deep in grass: I like this part. Harebells ring purple and papery as we pass. Squatting to pee I see rust coloured beetles. Sedges have edges, reeds are hollow, and grasses have joints--that's a little trick for telling grass-like things apart. At the top of these grass stalks feathery flags ride the always present Exshaw breeze. It's still early. No one but us on the mountain. We're going to climb Twilight Zone on Kid Goat. My stomach tightens with anticipation and anxiety. I don't let myself think about it. I do let myself think about it. Our packs are loaded with all the gear and it's a decent workout just to get to the approach. Finally we are at Main Tree Island, where we find the Twilight Zone. We take a breather, empty our packs, don harnesses. Since I'm still a neophyte I don't have much responsibility: my partner drapes a sling around his torso, clips biners, draws, nuts, and cams into his harness. Click, snap, ping: I love those sounds. Efficiency, security: this is the gear to take us to the top. We fix helmets, exchange hiking boots for skin-tight climbing shoes. The rope rests at our feet, tautly braided, brightly coloured. When I stick my nose into it, it smells like clean laundry. The forest at our feet is shadowed, the rock above sunstruck, high pitched, front range, limestone, not too rubbly. At the wall I look back. Not because I wish to return, but because I want to remember everything. The Francis Cooke landfill looks like a Bob the Builder movie set. Then I am doubled back, tied in with a figure eight, and he is on belay, so we are climbing. I follow his progress above me, note how slow he's moving, not like the climbing gym where the holds are fixed and obvious. In the lead he has to find a way up, then find spots to place gear, then thread the rope through, then continue up. I feed the rope, try to foresee his tugs so I don't throw him off balance, and listen to his communication. I love the look of him from below, climbing above me. When he has reached the anchor, he secures himself, tells me to take him off belay, then pulls up the rope so I can climb. 
Now it's my turn. He made it look easy, and he's made it very secure for me with the rope above firmly fixed, but I do have to find my own way up. And so I begin. Feet first, of course, and toes, must find the holds and ledges, then fingers and hands grip rock, find bits to grasp. Weight shifts, I swivel hips, spread my arms, reach and pinch, here the rock is smooth. It's easy to start. But there's challenge, always, to find the balance, to find enough good holds to rely on, to pull my weight, to keep going. As I ascend I think of nothing else, nothing! There's the rock, my body, and moving, climbing. The first pitch is achieved. I meet up with Andy, clip in to the anchor with my daisy chain, lean back, look back, way back. The landfill is farther away. Yam appears to the east. The trees on the ground are smaller now.
Morning's dark clouds scud past and spit a few drops on us before they leave. We transfer the rope and Andy heads up. As I belay him the sun kisses me in between blasts of breeze and I think of very little else. And that I think is the best part. Suddenly I get a beautiful break from the constant babble in my brain, the inevitable and eternal internal reminders of things that must be done before the next round of things that must be done. I watch Andy ascend, listen for his communication, feel for his where his body is, and what he's doing when I cannot see him. And then again it's my turn. There are a few old pitons, but mostly Andy has placed gear, cams that stretch open and relax into place. I pull them up as I ascend. My favourite part is feeling my way up the rock. The height and exposure gives me vertigo when I look over my shoulder. And as I navigate a tricky move--I go too far right and get cliffed out--I give an involuntary squeak and my heart races as I reach out and find nothing to hold onto.
Climbing is Andy's passion. Living in the moment is mine. Here, today, our passions come together, and isn't that nice. I enjoy his expertise, I love the day out. Cinquefoile and fern grow in impossible cracks.
Mountain alder hangs out over the prickly slab. I stop and finger its long, male catkins.
Like the gorgeous, orange wood lily in this focused moment I toil not, nor do I spin. I feed the rope. And then I find a way up the mountain. All my years of yoga and dancing and stretching and strength training and daily maintenance pay off here. Amazing how threads come together at certain pivot points in life. And then I have to navigate a really tough section. A crack, a ledge, an overhang and then some lovely slab with sharp-as-baby's-teeth points that I can practically run up.
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