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in issue eleven
Scintillations
Playing Boggle
Seduction in the Snow
Curious Rain
The Opposite of Peas
Playing in the Vertical World
Bring on Broadway
(Parents)
Snorkeling Past Fear
You Won't Get Far
In Those Shoes
Legos
Freedom From Five Feet
Chasing Shadows
Mozzarella No More!
Letters FROM
My Younger Self
Moody Girl

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Dandelion, Elm, &
Firefly Faeries
Dog Wearing A Cone
Apples
Sun Petals &
Sprawling Daisy
Poppy Field

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future issues
Issue 12: Synchronicity
Issue 13: Danger
Issue 14: Home
Issue 15: Transitions

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Mike Chung

There is a creature inside of me with a hunger that slowly gnaws at me until it is fed. My creature gets hungry if I haven’t climbed this week and when it gets hungry, it’s time to take a climbing trip.

Living in Chicago, IL it takes around seven hours, if driving with some semblance of sanity and self-preservation instinct, to get to the town of Slade, KY. Seven hours spent in the car with my climbing partners bobbing our heads to someone’s CD, sharing dark humor and dirty jokes, discussing world events, and coming up with solutions to humanity’s problems.

After seven hours of bonding, my partners and I have reached the base of the cliff. We begin by eyeing the line, the path of least resistance, that will lead us to the top of this 10-story cliff.

I look at the rock face looming above to discern any natural features that Mother Nature has seen fit to weather into the rock. I see shelves, pockets, and cracks that I will grab on to on my ascent. Sometimes the features are obvious; the rest of the time I have to look for the shadows that hint at hidden crevices. I see one pocket and then another, but they’re too far apart for my arms’ reach. I scrutinize the seemingly blank spot between the pockets until I find the key to my line: a small ledge only a centimeter in depth.

At the base of my line I put on my harness and rope up to my partner. I look skyward and mentally pantomime my plan of attack. I take a calming breath and begin to ascend the face using whatever holds I can.

After having climbed the easier portion to halfway up the route I arrive at the crux, the most difficult sequence of movements on the climb. I focus, and flow smoothly through the thought out moves: right hand to pocket, feet up to higher footholds, twist left hip to the wall, stand up on feet while pulling down on hands, move left hand to the tiny ledge, breathe, move feet again, lunge right hand to next pocket, and exhale.

A bead of sweat runs into my eye, drawing along with it some grime I accumulated from the endeavor. That stinging drop, produced by my near-Herculean effort, reduces me to temporary blindness. I ask myself again, ever briefly, "How is this fun?"

What is it, I wonder, about these seemingly masochistic activities that make them rewarding experiences? What draws me back again and again? How is all the hard effort, the sweat and grime, and a nearly overwhelming sense of fear not work, but play? Before these questions have finished forming in my mind, I already know the answers.

The opportunities for problem solving are limitless; I have brainteasers to toy with every which way. My fingers on a hold are the challenge of fitting a square peg in a round hole. I keep trying until I find the hole that my fingers fit. The intense focus it takes to climb a route makes the rest of the universe fade away. During the climb it is just me and the rock; my job, my worries, and my problems are not visible during those times. Those half-heartbeat moments in time, the feeling of just me and Mother Nature, have me craving climbing as if it was a drug. Climbing takes me to vistas I can't see anywhere else but from 1000 feet up. They are so enthralling that they have me dreaming about them for years later. That first breath of fresh air at the top invigorates me; the satisfaction of achievement, the conquering of a difficult route, simultaneously leaves me elated and satisfied, but gets me hungry to do more and bigger and harder things. The memories and camaraderie, with friends and strangers alike, will bring me back time and time again.

The fun is in the whole experience: the road trip music in the car, the jokes told around a campfire, the stars above at night, the personal victories, and flowing smoothly over stone. Once I step through that door into the world of climbing, it’s not an activity for the loonies anymore. In fact, it feels like the perfectly sane thing to do.

At the top of the climb, I take in the fresh air in a calming breath. I look around at the Gorge’s vibrant green canopy and at the other buttresses that jut out like stone islands in the forest. Sometimes I see other climbers in the distance on their chosen lines of the day.

The creature in me is fed, but it always wants more. I find my way down and look for my creature’s next snack.