Word count: 2,137. A good ratio of insightful to witty sentences, a dash of perversion and a cart load of humility. Two and a half laps on the Rostrum and four hours in front of the computer produced, dare I say, my best TR yet. The old man agreed. A weak nod, a tiny smile and two words finally brought a daughter's unrelenting pursuit of seek her father's approval to an end.

I read the tale of my misadventures up the north face while he inspected my rack. Born before the Hiroshima Nagasaki bombings, my father climbed with self TIG welded pitons, skinned up mountains with real seal skins and used dinosaur teeth to self arrest.*

"I thought I'd see flying cars before I saw climbing gear like this," the man cried in wonderment, inspecting the black blue hybrid alien and #6 camalot.

He was a modest climber; with manic curiosity, he lived for topo-less ascents only to race down eager to discover a different way back up. Since mountaineering was in his blood, it didn't surprise him when I announced plans to establish residency in Station Wagon, USA to embark on my journey, the climber's rite of passage better known as TDR, The Dirtbagger's Roadtrip. I would occasionally phone home with granite, lime and sandstone stories. He would always express relief to hear that I was alive, but would question what exactly was I going to do with that ivy league diploma. Well, if I needed to build a fire for an unplanned bivy, I wouldn't think twice before using it as kindling. Such humor was lost on my father. With the older brother Lieutenant Commander'ing in the US Navy, my reign as black sheep continued.

The dark fur began to blanch when I started to chronicle my adventures with amusing 5th grade reading level TRs. I did, however, make the mistake of sending him direct links to the ones I posted here, which consequently required me to swear on his grave that I would:
a. never again let a complete stranger borrow my car
b. never again try to climb the nose the day before work
c. open up a Roth IRA account, and
d. dammit, stop eating abandoned Yosemite tourist food

He didn't want to know how aid climbing was like sex, nor (God, forbid) did I feel like elaborating. Mistakes were made. Laughter ensued. Lessons on mild censorship learned. Academic papers, report cards and promotion letters floated by his office desk. And yet, nothing brought him joy like reading and seeing pictures of his daughter on the historic routes he read about while growing up. It became my mission to share my mischief with him as he adventured vicariously; I was now climbing for two.

By and large, I kept the news of my father's terminal illness to myself. Physical pain tolerance was high; emotional pain tolerance was low. I found comfort in my ability to compartmentalize my feelings while climbing, utilizing the logical side of my brain while numbing the emotional side. I thought 2011 was going to turn out to be one of the darkest years of my life. Now I suppose it wasn't all bad. I managed to not get injured, arrested, fired or knocked up.** To be fair, this could turn out to be one of the good years. The coveted silver lining was, as grim as it sounds, my father falling ill. It invited the opportunity to spend weeks by his bedside and for me to discover that the way to his heart was through my story telling.

"Aren't you going to be sad that I won't be around to walk you down the aisle?"

"Aisle? Ha! Hmmm, no." I smiled.

"What about a wedding? You don't want a wedding from your mom and I?"

"If I can fool someone into sharing a marriage license with me, I can fool them into eloping, too. One day in a white dress or years in a white van? It's a kind of no brainer opportunity cost, dontcha think? Mom said I could use the bridal fund toward a Sprinter!"

Such pragmatism was lost on my father. Deep fatherly sighs as he beckoned for me to finish reading.

It took every ounce of strength I had to finish reading. This was the last trip report. He will never read about my first El Cap solo, the story behind my very own first ascent, see new summit photos and snowy panoramic views or hear about the countless successes and failures to come. My heart felt like a battered and hollow piñata.

2,137 words later, I cried while he nodded, smiled and whispered, "the best."

Kimitaka Jomoto
June 1940 - September 2011




*I might have made that last one up.
** I'll be sure to post an update if I end up pregnant and in prison with a broken foot over the holidays.