Over the last couple years I've been fortunate to reconnect with some old friends and make some pretty darn cool new ones as I've jumped/fallen/scrambled into the world of rock climbing. Along the way I've also picked up on the strange and varied vernacular of the climbing culture. "Crux", "splitter", "epicing", "bomber", "bootie", "gobi" "redpoint" and a myriad of other seemingly crude and nonsensical terms have entered my vocabulary, creeping insidiously into a deeper part of my psyche and awakening in me what can probably best be termed "dirt bag" dreams. 

While "dirt bagging" entails a lifestyle lived out of your car (scraping to find your next meal so you can have enough energy to "send" your "project") it is also something far more noble. In its purest manifestation ("pure dirt bagging"?) it is a sacrifice of material goods, and mainstream ideals, in the pursuit of something less tangible...an appreciation of the simple things in life, made rich by a life lived vigorously on the rock and in the mountains. It is the feeling of aliveness that comes from a dip in a frigid alpine lake after days of sweating away in the same pair of worn out jeans, the triumphant joy in finding that last bit of summer sausage rolling around in the bottom of a pack, or the satisfaction in a particularly ingenuous duct taping or "Blake-ing". It is the sense of humor and clarity of vision that accompanies those who make conscious sacrifice to live outside certain societal norms in the name unknown adventures to come. And while dirt bags surely have nightmares too, my tastes of it thus far have found me tucked into desert or mountain hideaways where the stars are bright and sleep is heavy with the finest of dirt bag dreams...