In the vocabulary of rock climbers, a problem is the physical space between where you are right now and where you’d like to be in just a little bit. A solution is any one of the set of ways in which you might traverse that space. The joy of climbing, you immediately understand, lies in both problems and solutions: A particularly beautiful solution requires an especially interesting problem.
I wouldn’t call myself a rock climber, but I’ve done enough of it in the gym to have collected a small stockpile of techniques—I have a sense of how to stretch, and twist, and push on, and pull with, various bits and pieces of my body in order to make a seemingly inaccessible position accessible. I have a sense of how to approach the physical mass of a rock face, how to see hand-holds and foot-holds and how to exploit my contact with the rock itself so that friction and reaction forces give me extra leverage.
Ross and I let our Berkeley rock gym memberships lapse quite a while ago, but we like using these skills to scramble. If you’ve never heard of scrambling you can think of it as the middle ground between walking, which generally requires no skill or equipment—and technical climbing, which requires both training and gear. Yesterday the two of us spent a few hours inhabiting that middle ground in Sunol Regional Wilderness, a gorgeous park that lies just east of the Calaveras fault (part of the San Andreas fault system) and is blessed with an abundance of otherworldly blue-green serpentine and rich brown-black basalt rock erupting at intervals out of rippling hills. We scrambled in the sweet, clear waters of Alameda Creek, which has so many good-sized boulders in it that you can go nearly a mile straight through the creek itself and only occasionally have to hop over to one or the other bank. We scrambled up Rock Scramble Trail, whose nature does not belie its name.
I was having bouts of lightheadedness that day, on which more in a moment, but the weather was fine and the problems were interesting and the solutions satisfied. The daily push ups I’ve been doing for a few months helped me strong-arm my way up at least one rather tall boulder. I made a couple of singularly enjoyable moves that involved getting nearly horizontal, hands pressed to one whorled stone surface and boots pushing back against another. I got sweaty and I slipped and I ate a fly, and I thought: I wouldn’t mind it if the world were all boulder.
The lightheadedness was a thing of some note, though thankfully it was not only mild but almost enjoyable, in the way that, if you’ve ever gone under, the first flush of anesthesia hitting your veins can make you understand why “giddy” has two meanings. Sunday was the first time I became aware of it, though it’s continued through today and I imagine it may take a little while to subside. About ten days ago, I don’t mind explaining, my physician and I agreed that it was a good time for me to start transitioning off the medication I’ve been taking for the last 14 months. I was given a list of “discontinuation symptoms,” some of which were moderately terrifying and most of which I have very luckily avoided. But I’m pretty sure that this is where the lightheadedness came from.
The only other effect I am experiencing as a result of going off the drug is also of some note.
I have noted it in a conversation with Ross, and today in a letter to my dear friend Sarah, but I find it difficult to note it here, for some reason; perhaps that it requires telling you about one of the parts of myself I find the ugliest. The past 14 months have been good ones, and because of that and possibly because, I now realize, of the medication I’ve been on, this ugliness has not manifested itself very much at all. But it surfaced this past Saturday, while I was studying for an upcoming physics exam and struggling to call upon the concepts and equations I’ve been learning quickly enough to solve my list of practice problems in a reasonably finite period of time. And it surfaced on the drive back from Sunol yesterday, when I made several wrong navigation moves in a row on a busy highway.
Ugliness, in this case, is a sudden, blooming unhappiness—a kind of black choler rising in me like a force of nature—or at least, that is how I thought about it for most of my life. Ugliness is the choler itself, which is usually triggered by the sense that I’ve done something wrong or that something has gone wrong. It is also a secondary sense of outrage and panic about being infected with this feeling, and the desire to cut it out of myself as expeditiously as possible. And it is the almost automatic projection of both of these unhappinesses onto someone else, preferably in a way that has them wronging me—so that even if I have to be miserable, it doesn’t have to be my fault.
I was alone when it happened on Saturday, so Physics Itself took the brunt of my projected unhappiness, which was quite mild anyway and fortunately didn’t last very long because I had to shut my books and head off to meet an old friend. I noticed the choler, though, because it had been so long since I had felt it. Huh, I thought. It’s you. I haven’t missed you. It felt, a little, like a slipping.
On Sunday, of course, Ross was next to me in the car. It wasn’t exactly pleasant for either of us, but I’m very glad to be able to tell you that even without the smoothing benefits of a serotonin-norepinephrine reuptake inhibitor, and even though I could feel the ugliness growing like a little massif between my ribs, the whole thing blew over within a couple of minutes. My old friend hasn’t changed, but I have. After an initial convulsion of frustration, I clued Ross—who’d been, understandably, mainly focused on helping us navigate safely home—in on what was happening with me. It took several minutes more before I could say I was no longer angry, or unhappy, or vehemently desirous of not being in the wrong, but I didn’t push those things onto him and I didn’t gorge myself on them.
There was a space between where I was right then and where I wanted to be in just a little bit. There was a set of ways to traverse that space. And I don’t know if it was beautiful, but I found one.
Not all the rocks we scrambled in Sunol had taken their place there as a result of the tectonic forces at play beneath our feet, but this is true of a lot of the park’s most remarkable and interesting problems. Because the fine-grained, iron-rich basalt that dominates the ocean floor is heavier than the the phaneritic (large-grained), silica-rich granite that makes up most of the Earth’s land masses, an oceanic plate will slip-slide below a continental plate when the two have a contest of borders. Down in the mantle, the subducted basalt will melt, be reformed, and alter in character before some of it is unearthed by other geologic events.
Zeb Page, a petrologist at Oberlin whom I do not otherwise know, has won my heart by pointing out that these rocks represent the only material in the world that was once subducted but is now available for study. This is rock that came from the depths of the Earth’s core, became part of its skin, was pushed back under for a second spell in that fundamental forge none of us will ever see, and then returned again.
And we get to climb on it. We get to practice getting nearer to our destinations—even if, after all, Paul Simon was a little bit right about that slipping and sliding thing.