Dirt Bag Baptism
Getting High Outside
April 10th, 2025
The alarm went off at 5:00 a.m., and the first thought in my head was: absolutely not. But when Yosemite calls, you answer—even if it’s a pre-dawn, no-coffee, limbs-still-asleep kind of answer.
By 7:00 a.m., Peter and I were pulling into Yosemite Valley, groggy and hungry, already debating if this was a good idea. We were deep in the danger zone—caloric deficit meets shared stubbornness—and just as I was about to declare a hunger-induced mutiny, we found salvation in the form of Cheez-Its. No time for breakfast, but always time for artificially orange carbs.
Despite living so close to Yosemite, I have to admit it’s a little embarrassing how few times I’ve actually set foot in the park. Life, work, and routine have a way of keeping you tethered, even when one of the world’s greatest natural wonders is practically in your backyard. But every time I make the drive, winding through the pines until the road opens up at Tunnel View, I’m reminded why people travel from across the globe to see it. The moment you round that corner and the valley explodes into view — El Capitan towering to the left, Bridalveil Falls cascading to the right, Half Dome presiding in the distance — it feels like stepping into a cathedral carved by God’s own hand. No matter how many times I’ve witnessed it, that first glimpse never loses its magic. It humbles me, grounds me, and leaves me awestruck all over again.
As we racked up at the base of Commitment, Peter turned to me and dropped what I’m pretty sure was both a compliment and a dare:
“There’s climbers, there’s people who say they climb, and then there are people like me. In your own words, an enigma. You’re about to experience climbing in a way that most people never will. What I’m saying is: you’re like me, and you’re capable.”
To most people, that probably sounds cocky—and don’t get me wrong, it is—but there’s humble truth woven into Peter’s words. He doesn’t do half-measures. He moves through life with the kind of ferocity that scorches, even if it means burning out a little along the way. But lately, he’s been learning he can always come back to himself. That he doesn’t have to lose the fire to find peace.
So when he sets himself apart from the climbers and the ones who just say they climb, I get it. He’s a freak of nature. A force. A chaotic enigma. And the fact that he recognizes that same spark in me? That’s what brought us to this exact moment, standing at the base of a climb that neither of us were taking lightly.
No pressure, right?
The first pitch was a crack climb. And let me be clear: I have never crack climbed. After several humbling attempts (and by “attempts” I mean awkwardly trying to fit my entire soul into a fissure in the rock), I opted for a different route to retrieve the gear Peter had set. Sandbagged, if you ask me. Water? Nope. Wait until the next pitch.
Pitch two was a different beast—one that even had Peter pausing. A roof section loomed ahead, and watching him navigate it with steady focus gave me the push I needed. I mirrored what I’d been taught: fingers under the roof, leg flagged, tension in every fiber. When I popped out on the other side, Peter looked at me like I’d pulled a rabbit out of a chalk bag. Shocked, but mostly proud, I think. The rest of the pitch had me grinning like an idiot.
We celebrated with a sip of water. Or tried to.
“This tastes funny,” Peter said casually, just as I started to drink – no, gulp — the water. Then: “But I guess that’s to be expected if you leave it in a bag for six years.” I would have spit it out in horror had I not been so desperately thirsty. If we got sick later, at least we knew the culprit. Thanks buddy.
The final pitch mellowed out—a crack I could actually manage with a layback technique that felt, dare I say it, smooth. At the top, I high-fived Peter, our palms echoing against granite and sky.
The descent wove us through waterfalls, washing away both our thirst and our exhaustion. Back on the Valley floor, we made a beeline to the meadow, diving into the icy river, letting the cold shock our tired bodies back to life. We sat in the sun, lunch finally in hand, and watched ants scale El Cap while Peter shared a piece of his heart—his connection to climbing, to this place, to this version of himself he was rediscovering. Watching him return to something he’d put on hold felt like watching joy bloom in real time.
He came into my life as a sailor, but I’m proud to now know him as much more than that.
Before the day ended, Peter convinced me to do one more climb—Swans Slab. Simul-climbing was new to me, and let’s just say it tested both my endurance and our friendship. I was exhausted, hungry, and whining more than I’d like to admit. But Peter, ever the patient storm-weatherer, coaxed me into leading the final pitch. And then came the rappel.
Apparently, trusting myself to go backward off a cliff is not in my comfort zone. I cried a little. Maybe more than a little. Peter was also hungry and frustrated by my toddler-esque meltdown, but he remained calm and coached me through it. Soon my feet hit the valley floor.
I was so hangry I couldn’t look at him. He tried to hug me as a celebratory “you did it!” But I wasn’t having any of it. Luckily, he had the perfect remedy: pizza. Another rite of passage.
We ended the day in greasy glory, watching the sun dip behind the Valley walls, Half Dome watching us like it knew it would be next. Peter shared stories about his previous climbing partners and all of the missions they went on together. I could tell he was gauging my excitement, perhaps testing what he could drag me up. Big walls? Maybe. I hear it all comes down to your partner. And something tells me, I’ve hit the jackpot.
That evening, we leaned into tradition and found refuge at the legendary Camp 4, letting the steady roar of Yosemite Falls and the quiet murmur of fellow campers lull us to sleep like the dirt bags we were. It reminded me of sailing in the Sea of Cortez, falling asleep next to a beach fire while listening to the boys talk about plans and Lord knows what else. It was a similar feeling of peace and excitement.
Morning brought sore limbs and a new mission: retrieving Peter’s climbing books from his ex, in exchange for her spare car key and a Dutch oven. Probably close to a grand’s worth of climbing literature, finally back in his hands after years of separation. The climbing world — and all its possibilities — felt right at our fingertips.
From the box, Peter pulled out High Infatuation: A Climber’s Guide to Love and Gravity by Steph Davis. He handed it to me with a smirk. “Long-term loan,” he said.
I have a feeling our tick list is about to get real long.