Finding It by the Road

According to standard of procedure, my roommate Eric wasn't supposed to stray farther than twenty feet from the road to collect trash. As a grounds employee, part of his job description was to collect rubbish and litter within twenty feet of the park's roads. If a piece of litter was thirty, forty, or fifty feet from the road, he was not supposed to clean it up. This generally was no problem for him. There wasn't much litter in his district in Yosemite to begin with, let alone far from the park's roads and parking lots.

A few weeks ago, Eric was collecting paper cups, empty bags of chips, and other miscellaneous items a few park visitors chose to throw out their windows. It was a pretty slow day. Not much trash on the ground, not many visitors in the park. As he meandered down the side of the road, he noticed a piece of paper folded up, resting at the base of a tree about sixty or seventy feet from the road. He figured since it was his job to collect litter, he might as well stray from the road and hike halfway down the hill to grab the garbage. When he reached the piece of paper, he realized it wasn't trash. It was a letter dated June, 2005. It somehow was lost by its owner, found its way to the Wawona District in southern Yosemite, and had survived nearly three years in the open air in the Sierra Nevada. Two and a half winters in the Sierra. Some of the most torrential storms I've ever seen occur in the winter months in the Sierra. Seventy mile/hour wind gusts. Seven inches of rain in twenty-four hours (no exaggeration). Forty inches of snow in twenty-four hours. Wild fires. And the letter survived. It wasn't in a water-tight bag. It was by itself, folded neatly, weathered, half-torn, and legible. Out of curiosity, he unfolded the piece of paper and read what was written, front and back.

After enduring nearly three years unprotected in Yosemite's weather, my roommate decided that it would be a disservice to throw the letter away. The letter survived this long; he might as well keep it going. He brought it home and let me read it. I couldn't contain my smile. He asked if I would hold on to it since he assumed he would lose it. I told him I'd make sure it wasn't lost, thrown away, or forgotten. Sure, it was a thank you letter to dependable climbing partners and a goodbye letter to close friends. But as much as anything, the letter was about clarity. Clarity in her life and clarity within herself. As she put it in her closing words, "I am at peace."

It's strange. I read her letter with admiration. I also read it and relate to everything she wrote. It's free and sincere. It's honest, introspective, and real. It's beautiful. It really is beautiful.

Like most young adults at various points in their lives, this girl reached the precipice of introspection. On the eve of her twenty-sixth birthday, she raised questions about the socially expected linear progression through life, the validity of passion, and the importance of human connection. Did the life of a climbing bum answer any of these questions? Was the life of a climbing bum equal to happiness? She was in her mid-twenties and as she put it, she had no home, no job, and no boyfriend. She had a few hundred dollars to her name. In this society of standards, could that be considered happiness?

As the letter continues, she answers her own questions. Saying her thank you's and goodbyes, she recollects some of the closest bonds she's ever made in her life. Climbing partners becoming best friends, friendships becoming the type of human connections generally described as soul mates. Praise, gratitude, honor, love. Clarity.

Equally as clear was her love for climbing. Climbing is often described as an addiction, an obsession, an incurable craving. Such was not the case in her letter. The clarity of her love for climbing was sincere. There was nothing phony about it. Nothing to hide, nothing to fabricate to impress anybody. Her love of self-reliance, dependability, trust, endurance, and improvisation. Her love of granite walls from below and open vistas from the top.

Everyone has insecurities; nobody is free from them. Insecurity is what makes this letter so special. She was homeless, jobless, boyfriendless, and broke. Had she blown her chance at stability? Had she thrown away her chance at happiness for the trivial attempts to climb a few walls? The answer could have easily been yes. But rather than settling, she continued to climb and continued to be inspired by the spires, cliffs, and fellow climbing bums of Yosemite. She could have given in, packed it up, and resorted to the standard linear progression through life. But she overcame her insecurity, understood what was important, and denounced the social expectations that make so many people insecure. The goodbyes in the letter weren't concessions to the life of climbing. She wasn't folding only to find herself in a life that made her unhappy. Rather, her goodbyes were temporary as she was leaving for multiple-month first ascent of an unclimbed line in the Himalaya. She didn't concede. She had the strength not only to endure, but to be at peace with herself while doing so.

I'll never meet the author of this letter. But that doesn't matter. What matters is the sincerity and the soul of what she wrote. We all have our insecurities and our self doubts. We all question the validity of our passions and the wisdom in the life choices we've made. We all reach introspective thresholds at some points in our lives. There will be countless opportunities to concede, to take the safe route, to sacrifice peace with oneself by turning one's back on that which makes them happy. But strong people will continue to pursue their passions. And I will always be inspired by those that have the strength to pursue experiences that allow them to reach a brilliant realization...

I am at peace.