What’s funny is that I’m actually really nervous to start jumping again. I feel like last season, as a new jumper, was full of scrapes and scratches and off-landings and learning my rig and I was juuuuuust getting to feeling like I was getting the hang of it…and now it’s been so long I’m terrified of getting back on. I don’t want to scrape my knees on every fifth landing. I want to pick up where I left off.

Really, I just want to fly, to see the world from my favorite vantage point, to revel in the pace of a day at the dropzone again. I want to pack my rig, to settle into the process of folding and tucking the fabric. I want to do those things so much it hurts.

So…I get to be patient, and hope for good weather this weekend. I’m so anxious I could probably cry.

I’ve hit the gym a few times here and there, always feeling a little guilty because there were so many other tasks & people vying for my energy and attention. I even broke through my grade ceiling for the first time, which had been one of my goals for the year. (I don’t make resolutions, and I don’t set yearly goals–usually. I just happened to list out some late last January in a flash of forward thinking.) So then I hadn’t even noticed what a toll this relative inactivity has been taking on me, because in spite of all that, I HAVE been doing a lot of things I love, and spending a lot of blessed time alone.

Back in November, there was a talk around the campfire in Joshua Tree one night about when it was that we each considered ourselves “climbers”. I’ve never been good at pinpointing moments or specific events as markers of change like that, save for one, which is sort-of-but-not-really tied to my climbing life. A year ago August (which was a year from the week I’d had ankle surgery to repair an injury I’d sustained in my first few months of climbing) I hiked Half Dome for the very first time. I hesitate to mark this as a defining moment in my life, but in reality, it was, and in ways I don’t quite understand. Even in that, there wasn’t a specific, markable second in which I perceived some change–the best I can offer is that somehow, in that process I fell in love with those places and feelings. The fear and the challenge and the beauty.

Not long after that I made my first trip outdoors to climb, and in the following months had the privilege of meeting other climbers (some of whom have become very dear friends), going on many trips, and blowing wide open my love for and understanding of a passion for climbing and being outside. I still daily wear a small necklace with a tiny Half Dome pendant, though I’m not much of a jewelry girl and otherwise markedly inconsistent in my wearing of any sort of amulet.

All of that said, I have to confess that without the immediacy of activity, be it climbing or skydiving or running, I eventually start to feel like I’m not a climber/skydiver/runner. And so lately, in spite of the gym sessions and short neighborhood runs, I’ve felt like I’m not a climber or a skydiver or a runner, and that makes me sad. I’m using the downtime of the holidays to think on this and spend time doing other things I love, like knit and read. I look forward to my next trips and events and I’m trying to be optimistically patient about each one.

Since getting back from Joshua Tree, I’ve started climbing almost with the same enthusiasm and frequency as when I first started and felt like I was living from session to session strung out on chalk dust and overwhelmed with the idea of having found something by which I was entirely enraptured. All over again, there’s the ache in my fingers when I think about climbing, there’s the way it sits on my chest and makes it hard to breathe sometimes.

Naturally, I’m getting stronger again…and dealing with a lot of the same mental hurdles. Lately, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about limitations and lack of commitment. Were I to be totally honest, I’d say I have a harder time with the latter, but blame it on the former. I can count on one hand the number of routes I’ve projected, inside or out, because frankly, I don’t like the idea of failure or incompletion. I don’t want to get three quarters of the way up a tough route and spend a month fighting for the last ten feet just to not have it happen. And so I’ve been stuck at the same grade ceiling all year.

I can physically do the moves required to make that jump to the next grade. I’ve flailed and struggled up a few, realizing that I’m searingly stubborn. I WILL finish, if it takes me an hour. When I’m in, I’m all in. In climbing, in life…I’m a both-feet-in-at-the-same-time kind of girl. So here I am, stuck at the same grade because I won’t commit to trying something harder and either succeeding or failing. I have these self-imposed limitations that come crashing in on me, keeping me static.

So then, how do I make it the last ten feet? How do I fight for those last few moves? How do I take my hesitations and limitations and turn them on their heads so I can stop struggling against them?

Come holiday time, my nostalgia goes into high gear. I suppose that being home and falling more deeply in love with my wonderful family and all its nuances and quirks magnifies that a bit. Just last night my sister decided to pull out my old boxes from the attic and go through them–old yearbooks, awards, journals. It’s funny to see who I was a decade ago and the things that mattered to me. I can tell you with certainty that a decade ago I didn’t think I’d be the girl who prefers down jackets to dresses and campfire smell to perfume. Not that I ever expected to be a girly girl.

Lately, this girl I’ve been growing into has been feeling very blessed. Content. But not quiet content. Not sit-still content. Instead…dynamic, distracted, fidgety, wiggle-dance content. Joyful. Most days, I am absolutely certain that I am exactly where I’m supposed to be. I am doing things that I LOVE and I have wonderful people to share them with. I am convinced more and more that my attitude is entirely up to me. I can choose to be fearful or happy or stressed out or hopeful. I try to be realistic, to temper my tendency to spend too much time with my head in the clouds with the reality of current limitations and locations.

And most days that works out pretty well for me. Except…perhaps sometimes it is potential that most reduces me to feeling timid and unsure. Potential to succeed or to fail. Potential to accomplish. Potential to fall down, to get hurt. What IF I reach a goal? Then what? What is it after that that I press towards? I relish the process of progress, sometimes more than the resolution of accomplishment. What do I do in the aftermath? I feel like this colors every aspect of my life–my relationships, my studies, my dreams, and my endeavors.

—–

With all that said, I treasure the dialogue that weaves these pieces into my life, and the people with whom I share these moments. So often I feel like it’s all I can do to just tell the people I love how much they mean to me. I can’t hug them enough, I can’t offer enough to really demonstrate how deeply they are cared for. Sometimes it hurts! Risking sounding trite, I’d say I’m thankful, if that word even does it justice. Friends, future and present, near and far, know that you are loved and appreciated, always. Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours.

I’ve started this blog entry four times already. The trouble is, it’s difficult to encapsulate experiences that leave you reeling in reflection long after the bags are (mostly) unpacked and regular life has resumed. Trying to write it down feels trite but at the same time you want to preserve it while it’s still vivid and fresh and tangible.

With all that being said, the 1st Annual Joshua Tree Tweetup was astoundingly memorable. What began as a half-serious conversation on Twitter some months ago eventually became an internationally attended event that left a solid impact on all those who attended. It’s a wonder our friends and family members and even our Twitter friends haven’t asked us to shush up about how amazing the trip was already.

—–

Thursday
I managed to get off work early to get home and take a shower and finish packing. Rick (@RikRay) and I had decided that it would be ideal to try and make camp that night instead of splitting the trip into two parts, which eventually meant we didn’t get to stop on the way and spend time with my little brother, who lives at about the halfway point between here and Joshua Tree. Rick is as pleasant a travel buddy as I could ask for–agreeable to a fault and he has great taste in music. He also doesn’t mind sitting in silence for long stretches of highway–I know, right? Me? Quiet? Believe it. When we finally pulled in to camp around 10:30 p.m., we wasted no time getting our tents set up and sleeping bags unrolled, thanks to help from our campsitemates, some of whom we were meeting for the first time, like @dloo and @jeremyshapiro (those guys give great beta…for dance breaks…“jump on it!”). Our friends regaled us with stories about how they had climbed Headstone earlier that day, a easy yet heady route on the edge of a rock shaped like–you guessed it–a headstone. We stayed up far too late, and then retired shivering to our respective tents.

Friday
Upon waking, my very first thought (besides “what’s up with all the coughing, lungs?”) was “where the heck is @adventuregrrl? I NEED to hug her as soon as possible.” I bounded out of my tent in my long underwear to find Ms. Katie, who greeted me just as warmly and introduced me to Dan & @daisie981, whose real name is Nina but got called Daisie rather often on account of her Twitter handle.
Once hugs had been sufficiently exchanged, with the exception of sweet Tiffany, who I could tell needed a little bit of waking up before being subject to what eventually came to be referred to as the tacklehug, it was time for breakfast (and pants). Somehow, we managed to get our entire group assembled for the day’s destination without much to-do. There was most definitely a spirit of cooperation and self-responsibility that I think had much to do with this.
We spent the day at Hemingway, where there was plenty to be had in the way of both trad and sport routes at what we felt was a good spectrum of difficulty for our group. For part of the morning, Tiffany (who by now I was hugging almost incessantly), Katie, Randy, and I established a sweet bouldering problem after spending some time just scrambling around on the warm rock, losing ourselves in crevices and sprouting out the top of the boulders triumphantly, enjoying the unmatched sensation of communicating with the rock, enjoying its nuances and textures. Our bouldering problem turned out to be a bit of a challenge, as Randy was the only of us to top out, but we had a great couple of hours rubbing our fingertips raw on the rough rock. And when Randy sent, you could hear the whoops and hollers clear across the valley to the Hemingway formation where our friends were all climbing.
After lunch, I hopped onto White Lightning for a go at the route. Tape turned out to have been a really excellent idea, as the rock in Joshua Tree is very…rough. Great for friction, not so good for skin. It ended up being the only route I climbed all day on account of the fact that I was starting to really feel zonked by whatever illness had decided to take over my body.
Once packed up at Hemingway, about half the group made a stop at Gunsmoke, which has become an iconic reference amongst the tripgoers. Challenging enough to warrant project status by all but the strongest climbers of us, but doable enough to demand each of us try, Gunsmoke proved to be something we could connect over. We were even lucky enough to be present to watch Lizzy send for the first time, after more than four years of projecting the route. She climbed it with such inspirational grace, and the excitement of achievement was shared and echoed by all who watched.
Dinner back at camp was characterized by happy exhaustion and as we sat around the campfire for what would be the first of several “round robin” discussions, it was evident that what was happening in our midst was something very special. As we each shared our favorite memories from 2009, the collective spirit was one of family–our individual achievements were something we could all celebrate.
Bedtime came quickly and sleep came easily.

Saturday
Saturday I woke up feeling like I had been run over by a bus. I hadn’t slept soundly and the racking cough that had been vibrating through my chest made me feel as though everything was in slow motion. I dragged through my morning routine–oatmeal, coffee, pack a lunch–and I do not envy anyone that had to put up with me that morning. Even with coffee, I was grouchy.
That day, we planned Echo cove for our excursion, with plenty of routes to be had by all. Nina wanted to lead Touch & Go, and I wanted to follow her. We had never roped up together before that! After watching the party ahead of us climb and clean it, we roped up for the (cold) climb. It was morning, so the climb was in the shade, and let me tell you…it was chilly. It’s so much harder to hand jam when your fingers ache from the cold! Nina climbed the line in her trademark gutsy style. Even her “watch me” at the crux of the route wasn’t uttered in panic, but rather confidently and assuredly. I hope to someday climb with that kind of boldness. She set up her anchor and belayed me up to clean the pitch. Unfortunately I had to rest about three times on the way up the short (and beautiful) crack just to catch my breath and cough up my lungs. Kind, patient Nina was as supportive as can be and met me with a ready smile as I topped out.
Then the fun part started. Actually, our down “climb” was one of the highlights of my weekend. The beta we had received from the guys before us was ambiguous at best, and we were left thinking maybe we had gotten it wrong. A ten-foot chimney to start the descent? This was not class 3 scrambling. After some deliberation, we made it work, and then executed some measure of route-scouting at each juncture of the descent. All told, it took us about an hour to pluck through the boulder field to the base of the climb to retrieve our gear.
Gear was assembled, and then we made our way over to the base of Heart and Sole, a tough face climb characterized by tiny flakes that our fingertips barely held to. About five of our friends were there, and more trickled by throughout the day. I think almost all of us gave the climb a try by the end of the day, and we were that much more astounded to consider that Rick had actually led the climb to set up the toprope. I let myself be convinced to try the route, not committing in my mind to actually finishing it. I figured by the time I got to the you-don’t-want-to-slip-here-since-you’re-above-the-anchor-making-a-traverse part I would just come down. Really, though, I don’t do that. I don’t know why I thought I would. I get to that moment and I just DO it, even if I’m sketched.
I slipped once along the lip of the roof headed for the lieback. After that, it was smooth sailing all the way to the anchors. It’s climbs like that that are near but not at my limit that I really enjoy. I don’t really know what my limit is, actually (I have a hard time committing to redpointing a route, even in the gym…but that’s fodder for another blog altogether), so it’s fun to play with difficulty. Once I was off belay, I felt loads better. My energy level was hovering somewhere much closer to normal, and I thoroughly enjoyed watching my new friends make successful attempt after successful attempt. A little bit of easy bouldering followed, and then it was back to camp for campfire.
By this time, our entire expected group had arrived. We all ate dinner and then assembled around the fire for what would be our only and last night all together. The evening was colored with discussion and photos and s’mores and laughter and snuggles and lots of sweet moments. I have a hard time really explaining what that campfire session was like other than that it will always hold great significance to me, especially with regards to this trip. I was one of the last to go to bed, as I didn’t want to miss a word or a hug. The goodbyes that night were really hard (I’m starting to get a little teary now just thinking about it) and the hugs were extra long.

Sunday
Morning came too quickly, and with it the chore of packing up camp. For Rick and I, packing my car was an interesting challenge, as it had been the first time since a Civic is not exactly a big car. We’re pretty much masters at 3D Tetris, by my calculations.
From there, most of the group headed for Gunsmoke to have one last go at our beloved problem. Much video was taken and many photos were shot, and as we all shuffled in and out before heading on our respective ways, there was a unique feeling of completing the route as a group that Eileen very accurately represented in the video she put together and posted on her website.
David and Rick and I were the last to leave, after having watched another group come and go on Gunsmoke, and we reluctantly settled into our cars after exchanging long hugs and “see you soon”. It was going to be a long drive home. I was sunburnt, covered in desert dust, tired, and heavy-hearted. Rick and I made good time getting home, spending much of the drive either talking about how amazing the weekend had been or sitting in introspective silence. Pulling into my driveway and unloading my car was almost painful, and I was glad it was nighttime so I could count on the heaviness of sleep to soften some of the disorientation of reentry.

—–

Here I am, more than a week later, and still Jtree occupies my attention. Every new blog post and video and photo gallery leaves me teary, and I’m finding that the geographic limitations to hugging my new friends is making me crazy. I miss them all more than I can express, and just writing this all down does nothing to take the heaviness of it off of my heart and brain. I simultaneously hope for it to fade off of my psyche just a little, but hope that it never does. The part of me that breathes climbing has been stirred back into life a little (I had spent a lot of mental energy on skydiving the last few months) and I want to get stronger and climb harder and heck…I want to lead next season!

My dear #jtreetweetup family, I love you all dearly and I hope our paths cross again–sooner rather than later.

Saturday was my 23rd birthday. Dad made crepes for sis and her friends who had spent the night, which turned out to be a lovely birthday breakfast. Mmm…fresh crepes and lingonberry jam. I lazed about most of the morning since Mom & I had stayed up far too late talking the night before, and left midmorning to stop by Grandma & Papa’s for a quick hello. I finally made it down to the dropzone about lunchtime, brimming with excitement at the prospect of spending the afternoon doing one of my favorite things.

Unfortunately, it was one of those slow days when no one is out, so we organized a small load to go up so I could get at least one birthday jump. I made peace with my disappointment on the way to altitude, so imagine my delight when, by the time we landed there were two more jumpers out for the day! More jumps! For the second jump of the day, we set up a train, where three of us were connected in a sitting position. Lots of fun until opening, when BLAM, I took a chest strap to the face. For whatever reason, that opening was very fast, too fast for me to even look up and watch my canopy inflate. Once I was situated with my toggles, I took an inventory of my teeth (all present and accounted for) and the state of my skin (bleeding a little, but not nearly as bad as it could have been). A near perfect landing followed, thank goodness.

At this point, I think I could have opted out of my plans to complete a bikini skydive to celebrate my birthday and no one would have faulted me for it. I mean, my face was bleeding. But…I needed to do it for me. I wanted to do it. So…we packed up and I stripped down and then it was time to take off. Conveniently, none of the other girls were out that day…so it was just me and three of the guys on that load. Eek. I guess there’s not a lot of better ways to test your capacity for embarrassment!

Fortunately, that jump went off without a hitch, though I will admit that I was a little…well…freezing. And, according to those on the ground, we were visible from exit to landing, meaning that my impossibly white skin made us impossible to NOT see the entire time. Upon landing, I grimaced at the idea that the entire jump had just been caught on not one, but TWO video cameras. Again with the embarrassment thing. Skin just doesn’t look good in freefall. We packed up pretty quickly after that, and I shivered for at least a half an hour despite putting on long pants and a long sleeve shirt. A mellow birthday dinner followed, and then it was time to go home and get some good sleep in preparation for my very first race.

5:15 a.m. Sunday came WAY too early, but the anticipation of the days events helped shake off some of the grogginess and I managed to navigate the road closures on the way to the race and make it just after our team’s intended meetup time. I was set to run a marathon relay with three others, two of whom I know from church and one other I only met for the 2 seconds we were exchanging the baton at our relay exchange station.

I didn’t actually run until a little after 9:30 a.m. I opted not to listen to music for my leg of the relay. Six miles is a lot of time for a slow runner like me, which translates to a great deal of thinking time and space. I met a number of awesome competitors, and thoroughly enjoyed the encouragement provided by the bystanders. And let me tell you, there is nothing like that last push to get to your teammate for the handoff.

After we handed off, I got on the bus to head back to the finish and meet up with our other teammate. I was tired and happy and kind of glad it was over. The three of us enjoyed the festivities at the park for a few hours before heading out, basking in the good energy of the day’s events.

Since yesterday I’ve had a lot of time to think about the race and I’m really struggling with feeling excited about it. Having run the shortest possible distance available in that race, I feel that I can’t even compare my experience to the other racers’. I walked much more than I’d have liked, and can’t help but be disappointed about that. I try to rationalize the idea that it doesn’t matter, any of those other people, and not to compare myself to them, but my performance anxiety is pretty strong and hard to convince otherwise. I WANT to be more proud of myself, and maybe I will be, eventually. Today, though it’s hard. I want to do it again, and better. I want to train harder and set goals and heck, I’d really just like to be able to RUN the whole time next time.

For now, I’ll pretend my slightly stiff legs and neck aren’t as stiff as they really are, and I’ll keep fighting this scratchy throat and I’ll hope my face heals up soon. Who knows, maybe I’ll get a run in on Wednesday…after all, there is that 10K I’d been hoping to do…

First order of business: United has made a good effort to rectify the situation with Steph’s gear, so pending the final outcome of that, I may decide corporations aren’t all bad. For a more thorough story, go to Steph’s blog.

•••

When I first started climbing, I used to get this really intense ache in my hands every time I thought about climbing–almost like that feeling you get in your chest when you really miss someone. Earlier this week, on my way home from the gym it happened again, for the first time in a long time. I had almost forgotten how it felt! I’m no longer obsessive and debilitatingly enraptured by the idea of climbing. Instead, I realize that it has come to be a part of my life that’s here to stay. I can trust that it’s not going anywhere, and that it wasn’t a passing interest.

I have a tendency to go “all in” when I like something, which means that conversely I am “all out” if I’m not in. This all-or-nothing trait drives my passions in a way that can sometimes make me impossible to reason with. Sometimes it means that I don’t pursue things I won’t succeed in.

When I became a climber, I went all in. I thought about it constantly, talked about it all the time, read book after book about climbing and mountaineering, and watched as my priorities shifted a little. I have always been a good student who was good at doing school and not sports, and so it took me by surprise to be so devoted to something that wasn’t school related.

Not quite a year ago, I remember sitting in a local burrito shop with a climbing friend and realizing that I was struggling with this concept of becoming a “climber”. I suppose at this juncture in life I do fancy myself a climber, whatever that means, save for the fact that my idea of a climber does a lot more outdoor climbing than I currently do. Then again, that may just be my general insecurity talking. I know that I’ve chosen to have the obligations and activities that I have, so I don’t resent not getting outside as much as I’d like.

At the gym this last session, I had the pleasure of setting up a mock lead climbing scenario for a couple of my friends who are newer climbers. Since I haven’t led in a while (the rules for leading were changed a few months ago) it was good to refresh my own skills and critical eye by setting up the mock lead. It was even better to realize their eagerness to learn was infectious. I left that session with a renewed interest in something I love. I’ve spent many hours on those walls, processing all the messy noise of my life. It’s good to do that again.

I’m eager for the events of the next several days and hopeful that some interesting stories and photos will come to pass!

Tonight we went out to dinner as a unit since one of the “kids” leaves for the military tomorrow. (I refer to my generation of jumpers as the “kids”, and the rest of ‘em as the “adults”. Helps me keep things straight.) Just like when I’m at home, we sat at the table long after all our bellies were full, and the goodbyes afterwards were drawn out and full of hugs and kisses on the cheek and more hugs and well wishes and it was kind of solemn but mostly just kind of nice. To know that outside of sharing all of the crazy fun of our sport, we also care a lot.

I’ve learned that my dropzone isn’t like many others. We’re tiny, perhaps the littlest in the state, and we’re only open on the weekends. A day with more than 5 or 6 tandems is a busy day, and if we have enough fun jumpers for two rotating loads (4 per load) then business is hopping. Because there are so few of us, it doesn’t take long to get to know everyone and which weekends they’ll be out and even who flies what size and what color canopy. Unlike many other dropzones, we don’t party it up at the end of the day. I’m told things used to be crazier in previous generations, but I’m glad they’re not now.

We are the kind of dropzone where the owner will not only give me his daughter’s old main canopy because he knows it’ll be months before I can afford my own, but he’ll make adjustments to my container and even help me swap my risers in the middle of everything else. If someone has something to celebrate, we all celebrate, and if something bad happens, well, we hope that a) it wasn’t too bad, and b) it was on video.

With the pace at my dz, I can learn. I can watch, and even on a day like today when I only get to make one jump, I never have to stop moving or learning or watching. (I managed two good sit flys and a stand on today’s jump–I’ve been spending a lot of time doing solo freefly practice!) And just to be out there on the airport, which is usually pretty quiet on the weekends, is to kind of feel like there’s not anything going on anywhere else in the world. As if I wasn’t already enraptured enough by the sky, the bigness is even bigger out at the airport, and the sunsets are incredible. Sometimes I like to lay down on the pavement by the hangars and soak in the sensations and feelings of being in a place I love and to feel saturated in life.

I’m not really what you call “anti-establishment”. I hate getting in trouble, and I generally like to believe the best about everyone. Experience, however, has tempered my idealism. High standards frequently result in disappointment, especially when corporations are involved. Health insurance companies (don’t get me started), NPS rangers (still waiting on a court summons from them), universities (again…I could mouth off on this one for quite a while), and–most recently–airlines.

United Airlines, to be specific.

Read her blog for the firsthand account, but basically Steph went on an awesome BASE jumping trip to Lauterbrunnen last month only to have United “misplace” $12,000 worth of gear (including her parachute, which is kind of vital to the whole BASE jumping thing). The climbing community on Twitter has been abuzz the past few days trying to figure out how to get United’s attention (they don’t respond to Twitter messages) on Steph’s behalf.

So…why am I writing about this? Because if it were my gear, I’d be pretty upset. And while to a company like United this is just a paper in the stack, a drop in the bucket…it’s bigger than that to the rest of us. And maybe it won’t do a lick of good for me to post my 2 cents, but it’s worth a try. They’ve lost my business unless they fix the problem they’ve created, and I hope you’ll think twice before boarding a flight with United as well. And spread the word! (This is where my tendency toward idealism and optimism kicks in…I’m hoping we can make at least a little bit of difference in this situation!)

Go check out Steph’s blog about it, complete with awesome photos from the trip!

Perspective is something that I am constantly seeking. I want mine to be different somehow. When my Mom would let me borrow the camera when I was a kid, I would constantly look for new ways to see things through that lens. I often ended up on my belly or my back snapping photos of the sky or the house or the playground, just looking to see things in a different way.

I have been particularly infatuated with the sky since I can remember. I will sometimes call or text a friend just to tell them to step outside and share a vibrant sunset with me. So then, to explore and climb and fly becomes merely an extension of this part of me that longs to constantly see things from a new perspective. However, I didn’t ever dream of being a pilot or an astronaut or a rock climber. I’m not one of those stories where the heroine just knows deep down in her soul that she’s supposed to change the world and look good doing it. I’m not extraordinary.

I am, though, extraordinarily blessed to have the opportunity and ability to enjoy activities that at once settle my relentlessly restless spirit and allow me to perceive the beauty of changing horizons. There is little more peaceful than to see for 360 degrees around you that place where the sky and land are stitched together and for everything else in life to be quiet for those few moments. I don’t love to skydive because of a rush; I love it because it’s hushed and beautiful and challenging and dynamic all at once.

Expectant of greater things,
We try climbing -
Higher
And Higher;
An effort that costs us much,
Leaving us short of breath
To find only
The ground below is much prettier.
~Phillip Pulfrey, “Mountains” Love, Abstraction and other Speculations