I tiptoe up a patch of flaking sandstone and a disk of rock cuts away-my foot with it

摘要

"Rock!" I yell to my climbing partners below. Our route has seen only a few ascents, but it's clear that I'm well off it. A bird off course, a migration gone awry. To gather my wits, I roost in a deep, tawny hollow carved by the Gulf of Oman desert's rare buttorrential rains. "Off belay!" my partners respond with a muffled call from off in the distance. Far below, tucked among date palms and orange trees, a line of pools, like a trail of emerald bread crumbs, winds through a narrow canyon-a wadi, as it's called here in Oman. For days we'd been forgoing longer, multipitch rock climbs for the wadi's jungle gym of bouldersand its deep, warm pools-refreshing "crash pads" ready to catch an errant climber. But now we've left the wadi behind to tackle a sandstone spire. A thousand feet up, the air is still and hot. The only water here is the sweat dripping off me. I'm a long way from my climbing base in the Rockies. From my perch, I see the azure of the Arabian Sea instead of the smoky blue-gray teeth of distant peaks. Those aren't bear bells, but shepherds and their goats, routinely drowned out by the call to prayer. Instead of pine, we drink in the sweet smell of citrus. But a climber's movements and objectives remain the same, ingrained. I know how to carry onward, upward.