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Tuesday I was sure I was going to die, getting into Fields Chimney instead of the North Chimney in the dark and knowing that if I fell, I was going to die and probably take the two people stuck with me along to hell. Then yesterday I'm stuck leading the last (nice slab) of SBR as it started to rain, staring at rusty old shitty bolts that belong in a museum, which was followed by a wild, slippery descent of 8 raps, several hidden and requiring scrambling, in a downpour which was immediately followed by a hailstorm. After which we had to pack out on a less than obvious trail in the dark to the lake and canoe for an hour.
I totally swore off Mountaineering and vowed to become sport climber. And yet a mere 12 hours later I spend 7.5 hours in a car, happy with life and blocking out the bad things, figuring out how to squeeze in a few more routes in the mountains before the season ends.
What the hell kind of sick addiction is this growing into that seems to get worse every year? I think I am in touch with mortality, and generally make good decisions, but a mere day after I was certain I was going to die, I'm trying to figure out new ways to kill myself. Strange stuff in my head these days I guess.
So anyone want to climb...
Cheers,
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