Another relaxing Sunday at home, mowing the yard, reading a book, playing with the dog, and resting. Or not. I went out to search for a fabled grove of old-growth fir trees in the mountains near my home. Hours of driving, hiking, mapping, and the grove is still a mystery. But this one tree, at least, is better known to me. It is about 170 feet tall and 4 feet in diameter, so it is no giant, but is it a relic that escaped the saw nonetheless. I climbed with my friend Mike, and we made our peace with this gentle almost-giant, enjoyed some fresh air filtered through the needles, and some really nice views.

Why do I climb? You got me. I don’t always have a ready answer to that question. I could have stayed home and done nothing, and I guess that is the point. A Sunday spent mowing grass is like any other and is forgotten. A day in a tall tree is one I’ll remember, always. It’s about fresh air, and a climb up a rope that numbs the fingers, a combination that makes me ALIVE. Do I climb because I am alive and I need to feed my body and soul, or am I alive because I climbed and my body and soul are fed? I never know if it is the ends that justify the means, or the means that justify the ends. Either way it was a good day.