Brooklyn was doing great, considering that she had just had surgery the day before. As for me? Not so much.

When Brooklyn came home from being spayed, our befuddled 80-pound, 7-month-old puppy wobbled, whined and circled the living room in a post-anesthetic haze. But after a night of sleep she was back to her old self and just wanted to run and play. Anyone who has a dog will know how exceptionally impervious to suffering these animals often seem. When dogs see something they want more than anything else in the world—and there’s always something that they want—their doggy brains have a hard time pulling the brakes. In her case, that might mean the difference between keeping her stitches intact or ripping them out.

What Brooklyn wants, more than anything else, is to romp around with her many canine cohorts in our neighborhood. It’s what she lives for. Unfortunately, I couldn’t let her do that and she didn’t understand why. She turned obstinate and I lost my patience.

The straw that broke my back was my repeated failure in tricking her—using various trojan horses of steak, cheese, peanut butter and combinations of those three—into swallowing her medicine. Each time she’d find a way to eat the food and spit out the pill.

None of this typical dog behavior, of course, could ever justify my ensuing tantrum. But it happened. Exasperated, I kicked a wall and screamed a few times, which scared the dog. Which broke my heart.

I hardly ever get that nettled, so the feeling was unfamiliar. It felt like some alien force was controlling me. Suddenly, I’d become unrecognizable to myself. Who was this person? What was this dark force acting on my behalf? I didn’t like it.

[pullquote]But when you’re actually pissed off, that West Coast hippy bullshit doesn’t work.[/pullquote] I was on edge in part because I’d been wrestling a mountain of work, and also had made plans to climb that afternoon. I was already late to pick up my partner, Hayden. Eventually, I got Brooklyn to swallow her medicine. I rushed out the door. While driving, I tried breathing and bringing mindfulness to my emotions. But when you’re actually pissed off, that West Coast hippy bullshit doesn’t work. The shadow of a foreign, acrimonious presence lingered deep down.

My project is a route called Caddy Whompus, whichJoe Kinder bolted, sent and rated 5.14a two years ago. It has had only one other ascent that I know about, despite attempts from a few strong climbers. Compared to most routes on the Project Wall, Caddy Whompus is short (60 feet) and powerful. Basically it breaks down as two really hard boulder problems separated by a strenuous kneebar rest.

I’ve been trying this route off and on for a year, nearly doing it quickly last fall, then again in the spring. But my power/strength went down—as it tends to do over the course of a sport-climbing season—and life got in the way.

Hayden and I arrived in Rifle an hour before Caddy Whompus was to go into the sun. I did two quick warm-ups and prepared to try the rig.

I climbed the introductory technical slab and shook before the first crux. This sequence always makes me nervous because I have to skip a clip with the ankle-torquing slab looming below. Then, there’s a thrutchy deadpoint to a hold demanding perfect accuracy. Missing the hold means taking an out-of-control fall that is safe as long as I don’t get a hard catch.

I reminded myself that I had a good belayer, and could just relax and focus on climbing well. It worked and I made it through the first crux. It occurred to me I felt pretty good. I recovered in the kneebar as fully as I ever have, then launched into the main crux—a dope V9+ sequence through a roof.

Here, you face big, core-sapping compression moves, and on this go, I crushed them. Screaming and squeezing, I eked through the overhang and reached a jug rail. All that was left was 20 feet of 5.12+, on which I knew I wouldn’t fall. The route was mine!

I rushed to reach a shake out right. Suddenly the jug I was grabbing broke, and into the wind I went. In the instant it took for my handhold to crumble, the payoff of a year’s worth of effort was snatched away from me.

I dangled at the end of the rope, trying to make sense of what had just happened. My onlooking friends had gone from cheering to dead silent. It all seemed just so utterly absurd. And unfair. I will admit to almost crying. My motivation to climb, to do anything, evaporated like a dribble of piss on a patch of hot desert sand.

I was momentarily inconsolable. We went over to a different wall and I gave Hayden a belay. I felt depleted and didn’t want to climb anymore that day. But also the idea that I would leave the canyon without my “trophy” was even more unbearable.

So I went back to Caddy Whompus to—sigh—try again. The route was now baking in the sun. Cazzo.

“The rock is probably not too hot,” Hayden said optimistically. He was right. The surrounding foliage was golden and brilliant, and the autumn air was still crisp and invigorating. It was one of those rare yin-yang days that only come once or twice a year, when it’s OK to climb in either the sun or shade.

“I’m more concerned with the light messing up the way the holds look,” I whined, making excuses, however valid. “Do you think I should just wait? It’ll go back in the shade in an hour, I bet.”

I loathed the idea of waiting another hour to climb. “Screw it, I’ll just go for it.”

Again, no patience.

“Nice. Just get all demonic like Adam Ondra,” Hayden offered. “Pretend that this is your last try and you have to leave with your mom and go back to school in the Czech Repblic.”

Considering the route was being blasted by sun, I’m amazed that I nearly sent one of the hardest routes I’ve ever done. I climbed well into the upper crux, almost nailing it, but just before the jug rail, my foot popped.

I came down and realized I was now tired. About 40 minutes later, the route went back into the shade—should’ve waited—and I tried Caddy Whompus a third time. It was a decent go, but my core gave out pulling the roof, and I fell.

The sun set and I drove home, still bummed. But as I relived the day’s events, I realized how appropriate it all was. On a day when I had had such a terrific paucity of patience, I had gotten what I deserved. First, from losing my temper with my dog, and then for rushing the moves above the crux to get to a rest, and finally for not waiting till the route was back in the shade to try it again. All of my day’s misfortunes had intrinsically stemmed from my lack of patience. I was no different than my dog. What I wanted, more than anything else in the world, was to send. Instead of ripping out my own stitches, I had ripped a hold off the wall.

I thought back to the first time climbing taught me to be patient: back when I was a trad/big-wall climber in Yosemite. Because I wanted to be known as a fast climber—it’s all about speed in the Valley—I had been approaching those greasy, insecure granite cracks like I was a Huber. But it should be no surprise to learn that I’m definitely NOT badass enough to wear the proverbial (or literal) leather pants. Yosemite was spanking me, and it took me awhile to realize that I was flailing on these cracks because I was perpetually rushing to get to the top of the pitch.

[pullquote]But it should be no surprise to learn that I’m definitely NOT badass enough to wear the proverbial (or literal) leather pants.[/pullquote]

There is something about Yosemite climbing that demands a slow, methodical pace— setting each jam, placing each piece. I had a breakthrough when I realized that, for many climbs in Yosemite, going slower was often better—and, ironically, often made you faster overall. Make one move at a time, each one perfect. I learned that finding the rhythm of the route was often more important than the beta. And this required patience.

I laughed thinking about how the same lesson had come back today, and in such a harsh way. It’s funny how we have to learn the same lessons over and over. Especially in climbing. The process of redpointing a route will teach us many things—to be humble; to remain unattached to the outcome; to overcome the usual irrational fears. But just because you learn those things once doesn’t mean that you’re somehow exempt from having to learn them again.

Most of us think of enlightenment as a state that, once attained, remains with us forever. In fact, enlightenment is as transitory as everything else. If we’re lucky, we may experience an enlightened moment or two. But what fills the space between those blissful flashes is a reality that, unremittingly, dishes out hard lessons over and over. Life will teach you—even if you’re not asking to be taught.

I returned to Caddy Whompus the next day. Since I had basically already sent the route, I knew I could do it, but somehow that made me even more nervous about trying it. Now I was just afraid to fail. I sucked it up, however, and faced my fear. As I tied in, I made a vow: to not rush. Take my time, set my feet. To be patient.

I climbed well through the first half of the climb, and was soon facing the roof. I didn’t feel as strong as yesterday, but I told myself I could still pull it off. I began the sequence.

I stuck the big low-percentage move around the lip of the roof, and felt my arm go weak. But I didn’t rush to get off that hold. I spent what felt like way too long setting my heel hook, but I wanted to make sure my foot wouldn’t just pop. I made the next move. Then the next one. Suddenly, I was back at the jug rail. I spent a long time resting here—longer than usual. And only when the time was right, when I felt good, did I continue onward and clip the chains.

And as for Brooklyn, she seems to have come to terms with this period of down time. But I still catch her standing on the couch to look out the window, waiting for the day when she can go back out and romp around with her friends.