Racing along Wyoming grasslands and South Dakota forest boundary with sun setting to my left, the full moon rising to my right, breaking over multiple, distant grass covered, raised earthen shelves and sand cliffs; fence posts, and glistening barbed wire. Stopped abruptly to capture the moon on digital film, another car on the other side stopped to watch the sun set, clouds on fire on the horizon, burning yellow, orange, and eventually deep red.

Winding up and round into the Black Hills, North bound on HW85. Peaked at more than 6,000 feet, the temperature quickly dropped from the high fifties to 43F. The scent of pine entering my car through the fresh air laden vents. A camp fire at canyon bottom, river side camp ground invoked a smile as I assumed someone was also melting chocolate and marsh mellows between graham crackers.

Twisting round and round, down the canyon, the trees rising higher, split only for moments by white sand cliffs and small open fields whose condensation touched blades of grass reflected the full moon light. I raced by in my Subaru pulling hard around corners, remembering to accelerate, not brake. A good challenge, to program a physiological response to the opposite of that which is autonomous and seemingly logical.

At the intersection of HW85 and Alt14 which splits left to Spearfish, my birth place, and right to Lead, I noticed a hand painted, carved wooden sign showcasing cabins and tent sites. Were it not for anti-lock breaks, I would have enjoyed a brief spin as I turned hard to the left and applied ample pressure to the brake pedal, returning to the cabin property and entry. I dimmed my headlights and drove nearly silently deeper into the compound, in search of the camp host.

At the very back, where a single mercury vapor yard lamp illuminated a small portion of the property, I noted an open interior door through which the screen door cast warmer yellow light to the walkway. Inside, I tripped over a pair of sandals, entry rug, and nearly fell on to the dog who was too tired (or old) to take notice. The woman at the counter seemed pleased to rent a cabin at that late hour and I was thrilled to find something so perfectly situated at the bottom of the canyon where I was born, on the creek whose unique babble I believe I can recognize from any other in the world. Shallow, even, crisp, and over large, moss covered and smooth fist to head-sized boulders which dislodge once in a while and tumble just once or twice, emitting the deep reverberation of a small underwater collision.

The single room cabin greeted me with the flicker of a flame in the corner gas stove and the wonderful smell of untreated pine. Not one square inch was left without raw wood. The ceiling too covered in tongue-n-groove. I pressed my thumbnail into a piece to demonstrate that it was neither preserved with lacquer, stain, nor even water seal. Just pine. I could not help but smile, for the aroma of that wonderful wood has that effect on me.

I walked to the other side of the drive, plastic fork and kung-pow tofu delight from Wild Oats in hand, purchased in Fort Collins five hours earlier. I erected an overturned lawn chair just inches from the edge of Spearfish Creek, tightened my fleece jacket, and ate.

And then I listened and watched. Even at 10 pm, by the light of the single yard lamp mixed with the rising moon (which just broke the tree tops of the canyon walls, given me the opportunity to watch it rise twice in one night), I could easily enjoy both the surface and submerged features of the creek. Sticks, leaves, and other natural debris swiftly moved by.

I was briefly reminded of Siddhartha’s exploration of his world and the man who lived by the river, surviving, even thriving on what it randomly delivered. I wondered how long I would sit there before the river would bring something to me.

And then I felt more than I did hear something move behind me. When I turned, two white tail deer had crossed half of the yard, now perfectly and fully illuminated by the yard lamp. The lead deer stared at me, attempting to determine who or what I was, its ears moving as radar dishes concerned for enemy approach.

I retracted my eye contact and slowly turned away again, hoping it would not panic. To my surprise, the deer sneezed, it’s head bobbed vertically. It stopped, moved its front hoof forward and then back again, and sneezed even louder. At this, the both turned and bounded back to the roadside.

It appears they are not interested in my zesty tofu.

That night, at the local bar and salsa dance, word spread and enthusiasm grew for the new caves. The next morning I was thrilled to find I would be accompanied by Tom, Anibal, Renier, Devin (a lively, light-hearted forest service worker from Canada who had the propensity to drop his drawers for the camera whenever given the chance), Turbo, and Russo (they call him “the Russian” for his face and body are wide, strong, and fair-skinned; and he has the strength of an ox as was soon discovered).

Due to the rain and resulting humidity, the cave with Green Machine and La Venganza was soaked, completely unclimbable. I thought we would have to return. But Devin found a passageway and having crawled the length of it discovered it opened into another set of open-air caves, dry and wonderfully climbable. He returned on the outside, along the base of the wall only to require a two person crew to remove all of the stickers from his curly black hair.

Russo borrowed a machete from a local farmer and in less than an hour accomplished more clearing than I had in a day. He is an unstoppable machine, a monster with a machete, and as I learned, scuba gear and machine gun. Anibal made it clear that Russo was his right-hand man on all caving and climbing expeditions because he always got the job done.

Russo was one of those people who always smiles and always has a good story. He is friendly, but something tells you that should there be a war, you’d want him on your side. While in the Cuban military he trained as the equivalent of our Navy Seals. He was once dropped from a helicopter several miles from shore, at night, into the ocean. He swam for 18 hours straight with a full compliment of provisions on his back and kickboard to his front. This guy does not stop.

Another time he was dropped from a helicopter to test a new sport-chute (a parachute that maintains an air-foil as it glides). He landed in a farmer’s field only to be greeted by surprised and highly reactionary farmers armed with machetes. Because of his light skin (Cuba has a rich diversity of ethnic backgrounds) and the fact that he dropped from the sky from an unseen plane in full military camouflage, they assumed he was part of an American invasion. They ran at him while he was collecting his chute and yelled, “Get the American! Kill him!” Russo could not believe what was happening and turned, yelling back, “What? I am Cuban!” They continued to run at him, waving machetes and yelling.

He released himself from his chute, faced them and yelled, “No! Listen to me–I’m Cuban!” But they didn’t believe him. He turned and ran, thinking, What are these people doing? Wait, what am I doing? I have a machine gun! He turned again, still running, waved his gun and yelled, “You people are crazy! I have a machine gun and you have only machetes! What are you doing?!” No matter, they kept running at him, yelling “Kill the American!” Russo thought, These Cubans are c-r-a-z-y! No one will ever invade this country! Eventually, he was able to convince them he was in fact Cuban and walk to the rendezvous point without further concern for the farmers’ army.

Tulum, Mexico, Day 1
My story begins with a sanity check: less than 72 hours ago I was bouldering on a beach south of Cancun, just outside of Tulum, Mexico. While the temperature was in the mid-eighties, the tropical sun was intense. White sand as fine as I have ever felt beneath my feet and between my toes. The waves broke just meters from the base of the sharp limestone wall. It was impossible to look in any direction without taking in the beauty of the blue-green water, surf kites (I don’t know the formal name), and sparsely dressed (“topless”) sun bathers (actually, a few men seem to have forgotten the location of their shorts; and for the relative size of the bathing suits, the women might as well have too).

One couple made love on the beach in plain view of all who chose to watch (which seemed to require as much, perhaps more courage than making love in public itself). I realized again how conservative we are in the States. We may have freedom to purchase more than we need, freedom to travel where we desire, freedom to voice our opinions in the papers but we have in many respects locked ourselves into a relatively small frame of mind, of what is right and wrong, sinful and blessed. Hollywood produces the most violent films on the planet, viewed without second thought by kids, teenagers, young adults, and parents who bring their toddlers for lack of a sitter. “It’s just a movie. I know it’s not real. It doesn’t affect me.” But an exposed breast or love scene and everyone cries ‘foul’. We leave the theater having watched a comedy feeling happy, an adventure film, adventurous; a sci-fi with our minds racing to the distant stars in search of something more, and a romance feeling romantic. It may be “just a movie” but if it did not affect us in some fashion, we would not pay to view it.

Personally, I’d rather leave a theater with the warm desire to make love than the muscle tension, anxiety, and residual adrenaline that may lead to my driving recklessly, a snap argument, or uncomfortable sleep.

Hueco, Day 2
But now (and I seriously question why) I am at Hueco Tanks, Texas, where the hi for today was 34F. With the wind gusting at well over 30 miles per hour, the low is likely to be below zero. I am without thermals, a cook stove, or flashlight. I have a single pair of pants which sport a ripped knee, running shoes and thin cotton socks; a sweatshirt and polar fleece jacket (thank goodness), and a cap and gloves which I keep stowed in my auto-repair kit. Without the gloves, setting up the tent would have proved beyond even my tolerance for the cold; resorting to a room at Rob’s Place were it not for the fact that I have no money. I am stuck here with little more than a quarter tank of gas, block of cheese, white corn tortillas, and three apples for it appears my accountant again forgot (or was unable) to pay me. Perhaps my employees or shareholders executed a hostile take-over during my travels.

But this is Hueco for despite the weather, every camping spot is taken. Tomorrow is suppose to suck as well. But hopes are for Saturday to bring sunshine and weather more suitable for even the hardcore who are holding up in their tents, hands tucked beneath legs, arms, and double layers of blankets. I believe those climbers with companions are definitely better-off than those of us who travel solo.

Hueco, Day 3
The night time low has risen to the high twenties while the day time high might have reached the mid-fifties, in the sun warm enough to remove shirts and long pants. A few degrees are the difference between pain and pleasure. In “The Barn” at Rob’s Place (for those of you who have been here), I am tucked beneath a dusty blanket at the far end of an otherwise very unsupportive couch, finding myself drawn to the conversations that unfold here.

A classic conversation at Hueco …

Guy: Has anyone seen my crashpad?
Gal: (something I could not hear)
Guy: Dude, I’d put two hands on your neck but you’d kick me in the balls.
Gal: Yep, I’d kick you in the balls.
Guy: (pause) Dude, where’s my crashpad?

… and another …
Guy 1: I messed up my knee on Mojo.
Guy 2: No shit?

[lady’s name] did that yesterday too!
Gal: (walking up) Fuck you! You didn’t! What?
Guy 1: Yeah, on Mojo. I think it will be ok.
Guy 2: Could you hear it pop? Was it loud?
Guy 1: Yeah, it was real loud. Everyone heard it.
Gal: Shit. Did it hurt? (no response)
Guy 2: That problem’s cursed, man. That’s two knees blown in two days, third one this week.
Guy 1: Yeah, that knee-drop is wicked, dude.
Guy 2: Don’t worry, if it was a tendon, you wouldn’t be walking. It will heal in a week or so. Just take it easy. Don’t press too hard tomorrow.
Guy 1: Thanks man.

… and a third …
(Six people sitting on the couches, eating from the plywood table.)
Guy 1: (to another) Hey, your head lamp is still on.
Guy 2: Yeah, noticed that, but I thought you had a hard time seeing your sandwich.
Guy 1: (to a different guy) Hey, your head lamp is on too.
Guy 3: Shit. Thanks man.
Guy 1: (to a third guy) Uh, your headlamp is on too, dude.
Guy 4: (taking another bite of his sandwich) Hey, I prefer it that way. I feel more secure.
Guy 2: (whose headlamp is off now) Does your’s have that blinking feature?

Have not been pulling too hard. Seriously humbled. Not that the ratings count, but I can’t seem to get off the ground on some V4s, let alone V6s and was really pleased to have completed a V3 [can’t recall the name] to the left of “Gloria”. Fun problem that starts with a right-to-left crimpy traverse, eases up and over a lip into a giant hueco to stand in, hands free; then drop-down around an arret to a small hueco with the left hand, drop to a corner stone with the right, then pop with the left to a huge lip, feet cut (or at least mine did). Quick match, pull-up full, place the right foot in a pocket on the same level as the hands and rock over; stand-up, step forward and then top-out starting three meters from the ground, another two meters rounds to the top of the boulder.