Sleepy Saturday night. I wanted to read but my eyes couldn’t commit to anything more than a few pages. So, I opened up to the shortest essay I could find in Moments of Doubt—“Bad Day at Practice Rock.” Crazy, I thought after the first few paragraphs—this place, Practice Rock, is less than a half mile from my new house.

I moved to Montlake, a neighborhood of Seattle, that Saturday afternoon. I spent the morning leading a volunteer trail maintenance event in Issaquah and the remainder of the day moving and settling into my new room. After reading, I hit my sleeping pad like a brick.

I’ve grown fond of the Emerald City, but the adjustment hasn’t been easy. I’m not the John Denver “country boy” type, but living on a glacier and out of my car and in Amherst hasn’t prepared me for the not so subtle nuances of city living. Despite the excitement and hassle of getting my road bike city-ready, I’ve completely avoided using it on the streets. But I had to give up the excuses for not taking it out—Practice Rock was too close.

My feet awkwardly attacked at the pedals as I nearly cut in front of an annoyed car. They have brakes, I thought. Moments after, I crossed the bridge bike uncomfortably in hand by my side. I quickly made it to the UW (“U-Dub”) campus where I hoped to find those concrete slabs and cobbled monoliths. I also hoped to myself that the regulars I expected to see would be waiting for nicer weather—I wanted Practice Rock to myself. It’s not that I am an anti-social climber, I just wanted to feel the concrete beneath the rubber of my shoes for the first time in the comfort of aloneness.

I got what I wanted. But with every move across the concrete, I felt more rooted–it wouldn’t matter who was there or what was going on. And that’s what climbing is all about for me. Sure, it’s not a granite spire in the Arrigetch or a limestone cliff in Spain, but it’s climbing. The everyday stresses that point on couldn’t possibly be so bad.

Check out David Robert’s experience at Practice Rock in Moments of Doubt.