Growing up

Walking into a courthouse in these rural county seats gives me an odd sense of deja vu. I'll go into an assessor's office to check on some rancher's taxes, or the recorder's office to pry into mineral ownership of the lower forty, only to think, "I've been here before." One call to my father confirms the fact.
"Do they still have the buffalo head in the lobby? You used to love that thing."
So, I have been here before.

My father would drive all over Wyoming and Colorado for his job as an oil and gas attorney, and occasionally I would get to tag along. For a young son, this is close to an invite to Valhalla. These "see daddy's work" trips would last for several days, and include hotel nights, restaurants, and time spent with any young boy's hero, his father. Some of my better memories as a kid come from these trips.

My dad and I set off for Newcastle, Wyoming, county seat of Weston. Though not home to any decapitated wildlife, Devil's Tower looms nearby, and gave the two of us a fun diversion after a long day pulling books for one of his title opinions. This huge granite plug, the setting for a film called "Close Encounters of the Third Kind," patrols the northeastern corner of Wyoming's rolling grasslands, and offers tourists a pleasant hike around its base. It also offers rock climbers outstanding opportunities to practice. On this early trip to the tower, I was all of the former and non of the latter. That doesn't mean the climbing didn't leave its mark.

My father and I were walking around the Tower, when we passed a pair of rock climbers descending from a route. They were each still in their harness, and carried all the fun toys I'd enjoy as I got a bit older: cams, draws, a rope. Two details stand out. The first is a gold camalot hanging on one of the climber's harness. At the time, I had no idea what it was. Now, I get giddy at the thought of a perfect handjam every time I see one. The second was a bloody left leg on one of the climbers. He had obviously taken a fall and left some precious skin on the abrasive granite above us. I remember thinking to myself that climbing must be pretty bad-ass if you could walk away from it looking like THAT.

Fast forward about a dozen years. Instead of working with my dad, I'm dodging my own career with a trip to the Sierra. My friend Rob and I are walking into the base of a huge rock climb that has each of us salivating at the prospect of a tall granite face and a crux pitch of that perfect gold camalot size. Loaded with 60 pounds of requisite climbing gear, rope, and camping stuff, we pass a family of four. Rob and I march on with a quick hello, but I am in this family's presence just long enough to catch the eyes of the son who looks to be about 12. He watches me amble off down the trail, climbing gear visible under the lid of my pack if he'll take the time to notice.

That climber from Devil's tower must be 40 now. He looked to be in his mid to late twenties (my age now) when I saw him on that trip with my father. I wonder if he knew he'd be part of me, part of my memory of growing up. Did he know he'd come to stand as a sliver of inspiration to begin rock climbing? At the same time, I wonder where that kid is going after he and his family get off the trail in Eastern California. Am I going with him, at least in mind? Is he going climbing someday? Will he pass on the passion for this pursuit?

Maybe he'll grow up to be a hunter, and in a final show of irony, take the last buffalo from the American West.