Chris and I have been in entirely separate orbits for the last few weeks… both very busy with our various work obligations, and my long list of community obligations, and add on top of that climbing in the gym together and with other partners, plus me escaping to climb outside with friends while Chris tried to make some progress against the greenery that seems destined to reclaim our house… so he came up with the fantastic idea of going out on a date. Yesterday, he asked if we could do a date night… Tuesday (tonight) we had reservations at a nice restaurant in town for some undivided time over a meal at the same table.
We had a lovely evening, it was nice to catch up somewhere other than the climbing gym, and the food was good. We were having a good chat about life, and work, and our possible upcoming climbing trips, when, from the table directly behind me, I hear,
“He was just dangling from a rope. He said he wasn’t in pain, but he was afraid that he might bleed out…”
Now, “bleeding out” is one of those unmistakable keyword phrases among our band of merry climbing friends… so Chris and I both paused, to turn an ear toward the conversation.
I didn’t catch the whole story… but it sounded like a mother telling the story of a climbing accident on Rainier. We heard “crampons” and “packs” and “bleeding out” and something about heroic rangers, but missed most of the details. By mom’s tone of voice, everybody must have escaped unscathed…
But still. Even on our date night, crampons made it into the evening. How classic.
Sara Lobkovich Newsletter
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