I joined Tahnee today for a nice climbing session.
In addition to being fun and all, it was productive—I completed one of the two cave routes that is part of my goals for this month, and I made genuine progress on the other, successfully grabbing a hold that requires a tricky swing to get to, and keeping a hold of it while swing-reaching up to a hold much higher on the wall when my legs are far enough to the side that they don’t really provide much support.
(That’s an interesting sentence, in that it really doesn’t describe the route terribly well, but it also manages to make it sound a lot more epic than it really is. Like, there were plenty of people there—including a maybe 10-year-old girl—who did it as easily as walking down the street. They probably could have done it with only one finger on each hand, and while they were turned facing away from the wall. But comparing yourself to other people is a path to madness.)
None of that is really the point, though. Today was a pretty long climbing session, and afterwards, my fingers felt wacky.
They were rough. They were cracked. They were bumpy. They were calloused. They were tingly.
Seriously. “Fingers after Climbing” will be the new “David after Dentist.”
It was like there were fingers on top of my fingers, and outside of my fingers, and through my fingers. They may or may not have been real. Or they may have been projections of the earth, the human personification of Mother Gaia, with each crack one of the mighty faults that riddle its surface, and when I rubbed my hands together, I created the massive earthquake that California labors under the threat of every day. I’d say I’m sorry, but I enjoyed the power and did it a second and third time.
When I stretched my climbing fingers, they extended to the ocean. When I squeezed them into my fist again, they became a superdense singularity in space-time from which neither light nor General Zod could escape.
My fingers could tap-dance through a mine field. They tripped a lot of the mines, but that just added some style.
My fingers were like that duet that Dolly Parton did with Milli Vanilli. They came from not one, not two, but three other dimensions, traveling through enough wormholes and anomalies and tachyon beams to make Gene Roddenberry feel like he bedded more aliens than Captain Kirk.
I could feel through time.
Sadly, the feeling only lasted a couple hours. Now my hands just feel really badly chapped. But for a little while, I may have been a superhero.