I awoke in the
Indian Creek desert to the sound of a crying baby. I tossed and turned over in
the back of my Subaru – it’s always a good morning when I wake up in the back
of my car – and sat there basking in a new sort of nostalgia. The tribe is growing.
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| College |
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| Modern Day |
Our tribe, those who believe and
know our outdoor experiences define who we are and shape our existences, is
constantly ebbing and flowing. New friends, kindred spirits, are essential to
recreation, but with Persephone, the crying baby, well, she is truly the first
in my circle of friends to be brought this closely into the climbing world.
Sure, I have other friends who have kids,
but most of them procreate and then seem to disappear off the face of the
earth. They move to places like Denver, Oklahoma, and Texas; and then they
become “the friends I talk to once a year on the phone”. There’s no fault in
that, raising children is hard work, and I understand why many of my friends
have left Colorado mountain towns for steady paychecks and domestication in the
flatlands.
But Persie, her parents have stayed
put, for now anyways, in Gunnison, and are still dedicated to climbing and
skiing, and all that comes with that lifestyle. This little sweetheart, she
puts a tear in my eye and a smile on my face just thinking about her. So, to
say the least, I didn’t mind her crying that cold late November morning. I
couldn’t have been happier to have her there.
In college, when I knew everything,
I proclaimed to my parents that I was never having kids. I was sure of it.
“There’s already too many people on this planet,” I told them. “Overpopulation
is the number one environmental problem, so why should I contribute to that?”
When I shared this bit of
information with a ladyfriend of mine in college she replied, “You’re going to
be a lonely old man.”
I replied with silence.
I know I’m a failure in the eyes of
College Me. Everything was about the outdoors and the environment, and my
professors seemed to plead to me, it is up to you to do something. I thought
our generation was going to save the planet, and I thought I would be able to
curb my consumption and carbon footprint. I envisioned myself driving a car
that ran on hemp oil or hydrogen or something, living somewhere in a yurt where
I raised and grew my own food, and writing ferociously like Edward Abbey,
taking down the machine one sentence at a time.
And where am I at? Ten years out of
college and my Subaru is gulping down cheap gas like there’s no tomorrow. My
phone does really cool things, I buy most of my food at the grocery store, and
my energy comes from all traditional sources that are contributing to climate
change. At least weed is legal though, College Me has got to be stoked about
that!
I
don’t have kids, but not for environmental reasons; that notion has long faded,
my belief now is that the outdoor minded/liberal arts educated folks are the
ones that should be procreating. Saving
the planet. Impossible. Saving yourself and changing your ways. Difficult, not
impossible though.
The one thing I am proud of is knowing
and appreciating the moment. Lose a friend to an avalanche, a motorcycle wreck,
or a climbing accident and the truth is revealed: your time here is precious
and you are just one-minute part of a complex world. Have you done something
you’re proud of? Are you doing at least one thing to put your life in the right
direction? Is there someone still around that you really love? Yeah, you may
not have grown up to be who you wanted, but is there something that still gives
you hope? Then that’s what you live for. At least that’s what I live for. Hope.
Friends. Love. The moment.
I don’t have kids simply because I
haven’t met my life partner yet, with a huge dash of good luck, and proper
usage of birth control. I know most women want kids, and I know there’s nothing
I love more than women, so College Me loses in this argument. Seeing the
changes that happen in women from their early twenties to late twenties has
been eye opening as well; that biological clock thing they tell you about that
never seems real until you witness it first hand.
I think most single people who are
grown adults have that one who got away. Or, maybe more than one. I can fondly
reflect on a few. The other day on the phone I was talking with a former lover
who I once thought was The One Who Got Away. Eventually I realized she wasn’t,
but she is still somehow I highly respect and try to stay in touch with. She is
also about to deliver her first baby. Educated, passionate, beautiful, and
environmentally minded, I know she’s going to be a great mother.
Our conversation wasn’t overly profound.
It revolved around, what so and so is doing, and how our careers are going, but
I noticed she was eerily calm and centered. When we dated and she was in her
mid-twenties she was certain she didn’t want a child, but as she grew older,
and fell in love again, she realized for sure, she did want a kid. And, so she
is.
As our conversation grew to a close
she said something that stuck with me. “You know, for most of our lives we’re
preparing to arrive. We’re kind of always in that process of arriving at
something.”
Last week I ventured out to Indian
Creek to that same campground where we spent Thanksgiving; I was supposed to meet
a friend but I couldn’t find her. The campground, which was full over the
Thanksgiving holiday, was quiet, with not a single person in sight. I couldn’t
bear to stay, it was just too silent, and it would have been weird to stay
there all by myself.
So,
I turned my Subaru around and headed back to Durango, looking forward to days
in the future in the desert, surrounded by friends, and little ones running
around; a picture of the future College Me could have never imagined; one more
beautiful than I ever could have dreamed.
This piece is published in today's Durango Telegraph.
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