Pinnacles, you crazy wonderland/wasteland…
I remind myself about the ground up ethic of the Pinnacles as I stand on top of the balconies. I’m looking for bolts that can make it possible to rap down to a previous high point I’d previously made it to on one of the Pinnacles infamous aid routes. From the top, I can see why it has a ground up ethic, multitudes of broken chunks of rock, fractured and connected to the conglomerate mud by fault lines and dust. Better to start from the ground without knowing about the shooting gallery waiting above. I return to the Pinnacles year after year, shared with the Condors scratching their way back from oblivion through generations of lead bullets and half-eaten plastic trash fed to them by their parents. We have joint custody. The autumn and winter are mine and the spring and summer belong to them. It is much like every…