Lucid Puma

Rock Martin is a geologist from Indiana, Pennsylvania who explores the human spirit through his writing. A Penn State graduate, he depicts life’s challenges where the main struggle lies within. Rock enjoys fitness, camping, and hiking with his wife and young son, finding inspiration in nature and resilience.

The dry Nevada wind burned against my face as I stared at the orange painted door that led to my childhood home.

For a moment, the memory of its bright hue and brilliant color stood in all its glory, like it once had.

A familiar muffled shout broke through the closed windows, and the door was once again the fading and peeling entryway of the present.

Mark is gone.

The words circled in my head, and with a steadying breath, I stepped forward and pushed the door open, quietly entering.

My two remaining brothers sat at the kitchen table, faces hardened and creased, a few sheets of folded paper between them.

“Lovely! He split up everything evenly between us. But what good is that? All he has is debt!” My oldest brother Tommy’s voice echoed off the kitchen cabinets, his chest heaving, and his hands closed in tight fists.

Jake slammed his hand on the table. “Calm down, won’t you? At least he had all this figured out. Not many people his age have a will. He’s in a better place now, and he’s out of our hair.”

His words puddled quietly before them as silence filled the space. Of the four of us, he had always been the peacemaker.

Jake took a focusing breath. “He’s not asking for an expensive funeral. He just wants to be cremated and his ashes taken to the top of Lucid Puma.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. It’s one of the climbs in the canyon he used to do.”

“Are you kidding?! Who’s going to do it? We’ll have to hire someone from the local—”

“I’ll take him,” I blurted, the words sneaking out before I fully processed them.

Tommy and Jake both snapped around and met my gaze. Suddenly, I was a teenager again, caught in the middle of another argument. I took a deep breath, kept steady and returned the incredulous looks.

Tommy’s head tilted back, his nose rising. “Well, well. Look who it is. Mister businessman himself. Nice of you to show up now. What’s it been, twenty years since you’ve been home?”

“Seventeen.”

My instant response was met with blank stares.

“When’s the last time you climbed?” Jake asked, his tone gentle but careful.

“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Eight, ten years, I guess.”

“And you think you can climb this … fuzzy cat, or whatever it’s called.”

“Well, I guess it’s like riding a bike, you know. I…it’s what Mark wanted.” My voice trembled.

Tommy leaned back in his chair. “Did you know about his, well, situation?”

A lump welled in my throat.

“And you never came back. To try to help. This whole time.” Tommy’s voice rose with accusation.

“He didn’t…” I trailed off.

“Typical. Just run away from everyone.” Tommy shook his head. “Nobody cares, you know. He didn’t have any friends left, no other family. Let’s put his ashes on the mantle here. I mean, what’s the difference any-?”

“No,” I said. They both paused with wide eyes. “I’m taking him. If I can’t do it, I’ll pay someone to. Where is he now?”

“At the funeral home. Cremation is scheduled for tomorrow.”

“OK. I’ll pick him up and take him. Do you want me to bring him by so you can say your goodbyes?”

“We saw him this morning and made our peace.” Jake sighed, running his hands down his face, suddenly looking tired. “Things around here really went to shit after Mom and Dad died, didn’t they? What about you? Are you staying long?”

“I have to be back in Boston in three days.”

Tommy chuckled. “Of course you do. Go then, like always.”

I nodded and looked around, perhaps for the last time, feeling the sting of fresh tears. I clenched my jaw to push them away before turning and leaving.

There’s so much I wanted to change—there was so much I could have done differently—but this would have to be enough.

I spoke with Mark often after I left. He loved to hear what I was doing, what my East Coast life was like. Every call ended with a reassurance from him that he was fine. Only a small part of me ever really believed that.

The first step was preparing for the climb. I would need a helmet, chalk pouch, rappelling equipment, along with a pack, and climbing shoes. Finding these items wasn’t hard in a place like this.

I picked up Mark’s ashes and arrived in the canyon the next morning before dawn. A few stars were still visible in the slice of sky filling the gap between the canyon walls. The cool night air, thick with memories, whistled through and sang its early morning song.

Mark’s ashes were secured in my pack with my rappelling gear while my chalk pouch dangled from my belt. I dragged my right hand on the cool sandstone at the base of the cliff. The coarse grains bit through my skin, softened from years of office work. I had climbed Lucid Puma before, with Mark on his eighteenth birthday.

Come on, runt? What are you waiting for?

A small smile pulled at my lips, and my eyes stung as Mark’s phantom words drifted down from partway up the wall. He was an excellent climber, with the skills to be one of the best. Strong, fearless, persistent.

I tried to keep up, and became pretty good myself, but Mark was always a step ahead. Climbing was an experience he relished, but sharing it with me was his greatest joy. He never raced to the top, never left me behind. He always looked after me.

But I left and never looked back.

The ache in my chest grew heavier and my vision blurred.

The first rays of the morning sun and early bird chatter pulled me back. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, letting the symphony of the new day wash over me.

I got you, bro.

The whispered words eased the tightness, and I straightened.

Lucid Puma was not a long climb, possible in four or five hours, but it was challenging. The only path traversed two large slabs, separated by a small arete, with an overhang just before the summit. It was more technical than many of the other climbs in the area and could only be done free solo.

I chalked my hands and began searching for my first grips. The craggy sandstone revealed pocks and bumps as my extended fingers wrapped and clutched the grainy rind. My left shoe filled an opening in the rock, and I was off the ground. A crack a few inches above my left hand provided my next grip, and another solid foot placement pushed me further. My right hand extended and found another edge. My muscles flexed, and I rose further. Just as my eyes scanned the rocks for my next grip, my hand broke loose.

Swinging away from the wall, my opposite grip held for a moment, then it slipped. My knee crashed into the rock as I rolled backwards, landing on the canyon floor.

I’d made it three feet.

I stood and brushed the dust from my clothes and noticed a small stream of blood trickling down my leg from a cut on my right knee. A sudden, unexpected rage rushed forward.

I lunged at the rock wall again, seizing firm grips and stomping my feet into place. Again, I rose off the ground.

Come on, dumbass, what are you waiting for?

My feet and hands pressed into the gritty sandstone, each grip firmer than the last.

Soon I was ten feet up, becoming more comfortable with each step. My measured breaths gave way to a steady pant, my muscles burning, and my face wet.

The winding path led through the first slab, to the base of a thirty-foot corner known as Bear’s Elbow. My ankles and knees flexed and hooked around the edge, finding adequate holds, as my hands slid up each wall. The fingers of my right hand curled, digging into a small crack, enough to begin. My body dragged against the coarse rock for a few inches before I placed my hands and feet again. Stretched against the jagged sandstone to maintain balance, I crept up the wall. My soft hands, once hardened and calloused, seared with pain, the sandstone grinding through my skin with each grip.

As I emerged from the shade of the canyon, beads of sweat gave way to steady streams. They poured down my face and dripped off my nose and chin, painting the orange sandstone a deep red before evaporating in the dry desert air.

I found a spot to rest against the rock, trying to ignore my screaming muscles and my wet, plastered clothing. The cool, refreshing water in my bottle provided a brief respite. I gulped down as much as I could, squirting a little on my face to wash away the stinging sweat. It would have to do.

The sandstone cliffs shimmered in the morning sunlight. Rich shades of orange, red, and brown, spotted with the occasional gray, blanketed the canyon. The vibrant hue was accented by patches of green vegetation. A clear sky capped the landscape in the deepest blue I’d seen in years.

I gave all this up for a busy Bostonian life, perpetually caged in small white rooms filled with artificial plants, photos of distant places, and desks covered with countless sheets of paper requiring endless shuffling. The only discernable end being to line the pockets of our precious clients. A life that squeezes everything out of you, replacing it with nothing.

I made that choice.

But here, under the hot desert sun, none of it really mattered. I took one last drink and, while trying to put the bottle back in my belt, my right foot slipped.

My weight abruptly shifted, sending me into a skid across the jagged rock. The water bottle left my hand and clanged against the rock, the noise reverberating through the canyon as I frantically reached for something, anything. My hands and feet stretched in every direction, searching for any small protrusion. The coarse sandstone dug into my leg and face, shaving the skin bare before opening long gashes. My fingers curled desperately into the rock, digging into the gritty surface. Every part of me squeezed against the canyon wall, cutting deeper into my skin.

I somehow managed to halt the slide, only falling a few feet, but it left me stretched too far. I needed to adjust to regrip, but any attempt threatened another fall. My bloody fingernails bore into the rock as I hung there, my arms trembling and my knees shaking.

You know you’re screwed now. The only way down isn’t good. 

This time, there was nowhere to run. There was no safe, cozy office job a world away I could escape to.

Mark had saved me countless times before and all I had given in return was a thousand broken promises.

The time had come to return the favor.

I guess you’re just going to have to suck it up and get moving.

My fingers began inching their way up the wall to a better position. Instincts that had been dormant for years began to emerge as I found a hold and slid into a better position. From there, I regained solid footing and kept moving. One grip after another, one foothold after another. My movements became more calculated, more precise, more focused. Soon I had moved above Bear’s Elbow and was over halfway through the climb. The next slab was tricky, but it didn’t slow me down.

Above the slab was a section of angular sandstone bisected in several places by open cracks. Above that was Wolf Overhang, the most treacherous part of the climb, with the summit immediately above.

I was almost there.

The cracks provided dependable grips and footholds, moving me closer to the overhang. My right hand disappeared into a larger crack, searching for a hold. As I scanned below for a foothold, a rattling noise spilled out of the crack, piercing the silence of the canyon. An unmistakable sound.

My skin roiled with goosebumps as chills bolted up my spine. I ripped my hand out of the crack. The momentum sent me into a barndoor swing away from the rocks. I scrambled to find a grip, anchoring onto a smaller crack, halting the swing. Scanning the formation above me, I searched for a way to get around the snake. My shaking hand slid into a new location, along the same crack but a few feet away from my initial grip. As my fingertips moved into the crack, the same rattling began, this time louder than before. I pulled my hand down again and realized I would need to move laterally along the wall, far enough away that the snake would allow me to pass. My feet shuffled along a ledge in the rock wall, toward what looked like a smaller opening about ten feet away. The snake remained silent as I inched past.

Now the overhang.

The route up was familiar; it was the most memorable part of the climb when the two of us did it years earlier. A series of open fractures in the otherwise monolithic overhang afforded safe passage but demanded focus and strength. The slanted ledge under my feet was no wider than a steel beam, just enough for a rest.

My arms stretched as I tried to calm my quaking muscles that now felt like jelly. I wiped away the sweat that coated what felt like every part of me and chalked my hands. The summit awaited.

I locked in each grip and foothold before pulling up, my movements calculated and precise. Near the edge of the overhang, I hung for a moment, my feet loose in the desert breeze.

Mark was gone, but, in that moment, I’d never felt closer to him.

I swung my feet around and hooked my heel atop the sturdy rock, then slapped my hand around a crack. My muscles flexed for one final pull, and I emerged atop the summit. Harsh breaths pushed their way out of me, and every muscle seared.

We made it.

I gingerly sat on the rock and looked out across the landscape, basking in the moment as the canyon grinned up at me.

It was then that I understood. He picked a final resting place where few could find him. He wanted peace.

I pulled the bag out of my pack, opened it and watched as his ashes caught the wind, forever mixing with the grains of orange and red sand that ride the wild desert breeze. And I felt it, that peace, the one Mark sought, as it settled over me. My eyes burned, but my heart lifted. No more running. No more hiding. This was where I was meant to be.