I remember the letter I wrote the night after it happened. The back of my Subaru smelled like coffee and climbing shoes, I couldn’t sleep. A full moon pierced through the window and drenched the cams in whit
e light. All the usual signs of a day in the mountains: sore hips, aching calves, wind-burned lips, a loud heart. But something was different. There was an awareness of my own breath and bones that I had never felt before. With a scabbed hand, I wrote by headlamp: I will never free solo again.
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