Desert life

One spring, long time ago, I came to the desert, and it felt home.  Directly, immediately, without any introductions, any flattery, or deception.  Brutally and honestly, it was there, it was it.  Rock, canyons, walls, towers.  I started climbing because I saw people hanging on the walls of Zion.  It was not only about walking and looking.  You could participate, you could hang.  On the wall.  Enlightened, then and there, on Angels' Landing.

If not Montserrat, Utah is another place I could happily call home.  Moab, - although I saw it just in passing, there for a few hours, - but it left its trace of paradise, if there ever was to be one for a climber, - and Steph is its queen.

  

If one day I leave Spain, I'd like to go back to the desert, that desert, the red rock, the orange air, the painful sun.  Those painfully blooming cacti.  And snow covering the Fisher Towers.  Discovering arches, big and small ones, pioneers once again, the story told all over again.  And none else bothering you, maybe that is freedom.  Maybe that is utopia.  But kudos to you, Steph, go girl!