This is The Shorts, and you're listening to The Dirtbag Diaries.

My first solo wasn't planned. I arrived early at Luce and Clark State Park, 20 minutes

from my home in Portland, work on a project, but first I needed a warm-up. I wandered to the

base of my first translate, a blocky, unappealing 35-foot route named Giant Staircase. I sat on

the blocks at the base of the route, the park to myself, sipping my coffee. My mind and

body were free from my usual pre-climbed jitters. For the three years that I've been climbing

my biggest problem has been my head. At times I've been so gripped with fear that I had shaken

myself off of routes, soloing this route, climbing it without the rope was preposterous.

I slipped on my climbing shoes and launched into the first moves. I moved effortlessly over

the smooth basalt, my body acting without instruction from my fickle mind. Topping out, I

looked down at the empty parking lot, then passed to the sandy river. I couldn't help but laugh,

though an easy route felt magical to me.

Throughout my life I've dealt with the ups and downs of depression. Sometimes it's just a day

and then it's off. It's fleeting as an out-forgotten thought which brought it on.

But sometimes it stays, hangs over my head, adding an extra layer of clouds to the already

overcast sky that caps the Pacific Northwest in winter. In the past I dealt with this by turning in

on myself, closing the door and turning off the phone until I had plunged into the depths of the

darker segments of my brain. I moved to Portland in an attempt to

escape some of those darker thoughts, thinking a change of place could cure me. Within four months

of living here I met Amy. It wasn't my intention to find anyone, let alone someone who had kids,

but after two rain-soaked lunch dates in a movie we were in item.

Six months later I sustained an injury on a trip to Yosemite, allowing me to spend more time

...