Yerba Loca (Crazy Weed)

Loco is back in town. Back from stomping up some of the highest peaks in the Andes – and therefore the highest peaks in the Americas. And he has some great stories – of hauling high-tech measuring instruments and marble plaques to distant summits. A Mexican sherpa, who was never really supposed to summit anything, bagging every peak. But this day we are mostly concerned with a 15 foot boulder problem in a nearby park. Probably somebody has climbed this thing. But everyone I talk to says – I bouldered up to the exit moves and then it got so thin it was just too scary. Only in Spanish.

But we convince our families and friends that they really need to go up to this park, Yerba Loca – even though clouds in the city probably mean worse weather in the hills. We lure them with the promise of sausages and cutlets and wine. And we pack THE crashpad. One postage-stamp sized slab with the energy-absorption qualities of a two-by-four. It has the advantage of turning a hard, boulder-strewn landing into a hard, flat landing. If you manage to hit the damn thing.

There were two very strong-looking Chileans at the boulder when I arrived. They tell me - We bouldered up to the exit moves and then it got so thin it was just too scary. Man, I want this thing. Oddly, the weather is better in the hills than the city and the sun is breaking through the clouds and we could just do it with a bit of luck.

So while Loco is tending the grill I warm up and feel good and boulder up to the exit moves and, yeah, it’s too flipping scary. And dirty. I walk around back and try to clean it up from the top but really only gain an appreciation for how high it is off the ground.

And since we’re family men and since the whole crew is waiting at the grill and since I left all remnants of pride behind when I bid adieu to my 30’s we sling a rope from a tree over the lip and top-rope the exit. It goes. Thin. Scary. Seems to hinge on a right thumb-hook. But it goes. And I’m ready to do it, cement crashpad and all, when the clouds rush in and cover everything with a frosty layer of cold slime.

We retreat to the grill and talk about friends with extra crashpads or maybe hauling up mattresses the next time.

Later now, I’m lounging in front of the fire at home with a glass of Chilean red and the tunes going and I’m rehearsing that thumb hook in my mind and I know it’s got to go soon…