The Slow and the Fast
The rock walls to be climbed were embedded in natural concrete, an aggregate of smooth river stones permanently fixed into canyon walls. I’m new to the sport and afraid of heights (but I don’t know anyone that isn’t a little scared). My attempts to make it up the wall would be as full of fear as the maple leaves were bright. The only way I could do it was slowly, enough that anyone watching could clock my carefulness. But our time there went by so quickly.
It was a weekend of the slow and the fast.
Slow. Odd because (at least for me) this season is so energizing. “Full of magic and portent,” said someone who was right. Autumn feels like something lovely, true , good, and unknown is on next week’s agenda.
Fast. The leaves are changing color quickly, the difference sometimes visible overnight. They are dying rapidly compared to the lifespan of the tree itself.
Slow. On the climb: put one hand here, look down at my feet, put a toe on a hold that doesn’t seem like it will support me. Breathe twice and hope it won’t slip.
Fast. The voices filtering up from the ground, the talk of mundane things that are annoying in their irrelevance as I’m clinging to the wall with sweating palms and shaking legs.
Slow. Next foot higher. No, that move won’t work. Let it dangle and search while my hands try and grip with strength they aren’t used to.
Fast. A dirt bike comes off the Jeep road below and zips down to the gravel road that connects this place to the rural road which goes all the way to the interstate. He guns the engine and the pistons roar.
Slow. The dust that rises from the bike’s studded back tire filters through the sunlight and lands on what tree leaves are left. They aren’t photosynthesizing anymore so their surface being coated with dust doesn’t matter like it did a week ago.
Fast. Said my boy earlier as he lowered down the climbing rope. Let me down faster. He wants to feel his stomach drop.
Slow. I’m two moves away from the top of the climb and peek to the side at the view. I’m taller than most of the trees. It is spectacular, but the fear blooms. I bring my eyes carefully back to the smooth stones parallel to my body.
Fast. The steady but consistent trickle of water beside our campsite as it moves downhill. It is remarkable because there has been no snow for months and no rain for weeks. There is no way I can hear that water from up on the wall, but memory places it in my ears.
Slow. My hand moves like it isn’t mine to touch the chains that mark the top of the route. The metal is warmed by the sun but not unpleasantly so. I am careful to keep blinders on my periphery as I look up but not down.
Fast. There’s a jerk as my belayer beings to lower me. I’m facing the rock and the way to get down is to lean backward into the void. To put the full weight and trust in all the equipment and decisions that led me here, suspended on a rock face, falling backward.
Slow. I yell it, please slower. The fear is an amoeba sitting on my chest, coating my hands and tongue.
Fast. My descent feels so swift past all the moves I just made, zipping by all the places I thought I couldn’t go higher.
Slow. A leaf releases as I’m nearing the ground. It circles itself in an inefficient descent, much more languorous that mine.
Fast. My feet hit the ground and, unused to gravity performing in that way, I collapse. I release half a curse word before I clamp down the rest; there are so many children in hearing distance.
Slow. I look up. Doesn’t seem so bad. Maybe I’ll try again.
Fast. Watching my son ascend the same way, his young tendons allowing him moves I considered when I was up there, only to discard them for lack of flexibility.
Slow. The light smooths into dusk in only the way it can in a canyon forest. We pack and walk out.
Fast. We cook food and put its energy back into bodies well-used.
Slow. The fire begins. One tiny flame, then another, then they join. They grow higher and hotter. The stars poke out from the blanket of night one at a time.
Fast. The next morning, we drive away, our tires rotating swiftly towards home.
Inspired by events at Maple Canyon, Sanpete County, Utah.
on the land of the Ute people (source).