April 18, 2009. Back on the river. On Friday evening I slid my kayak into the water off of Tivoli and shoved north toward Cheviot. As I put in a man pulled onto the rocky landing in his boat. He tells me he lives in Tivoli and paddles almost every day, though through this ice-choked winter he missed a few days. I paddle almost every day in the warmer months and have never seen this person. Makes me think about how solitary this sport is.
There is some new graffiti in the walls just north of town. Big bulky letters: Tell the Truth. Will do.
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Here is a short piece I wrote about the joys of climbing.
At Red Rocks, Nevada, you can find guides who act like soccer coaches with their clients, cheering them on as they dangle from top ropes. There are super buff climbers gliding up 5.12s, and mothers with their toddlers in climbing harnesses and miniature sticky shoes. In the campground you’ll find climbing bums living out of the backs of their trucks, like you always have at every climbing area in this country. Sprinkled in there are a few tourists who found their way out of Las Vegas, tore themselves from the slot machines to drive the 12 mile scenic loop through Red Rocks National Park. Some even get out of their cars and take a walk. A hike. Then there was me, a middle-aged woman, college professor on spring break, desert lover in search of canyon wrens and desert tortoise, and in search of a good time climbing as well.
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