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The June 2025 Writing Contest asked writers to describe the most important move of their lives in 500 words or less. The following submission won third place, a $50 cash prize, and a one-year Outside Digital subscription.
In November, Mount Tamalpais is blanketed in the thick scent of bay laurel leaves. Above our heads, afternoon sun sinks from the sky, through redwoods, and onto Riley and me at the forest’s bottom level. There’s an ease to the atmosphere, a peace running through these hills—save for the steady simmer inside me, frustrated by my inability to follow in Riley’s footsteps.
“I just want you to know what it feels like in my body,” I say, hugging my knees to my chest.
From the rock where I’m perched, I have a clear view of the boulder taunting me with visions of sending.
“I know,” Riley says, barefoot on our crashpads. “But you’re not too short. You just have to dyno.”
I wriggle my toes against the stiff rubber encasing them. I know he’s right. But we’re at an impasse: his focus on my “growth mindset” versus my desire to be validated, understood. I don’t want to leap from two crimps, cutting feet–I want to do what he did. I want my strength measured by different metrics, to operate within a system that reflects what trying hard looks like for a 5’1” woman with a negative ape index.
“Right,” I say sarcastically. “Just dyno.”
Studying the boulder’s face, I trace the movements in my mind: left-hand gaston, foot swap, right-hand gaston, big ol’ bump to a crimp that stretches me out completely, two-foot step up with steely body tension, a left hand to crimp the shit out of, and then… magic. Take off.
“You’re basically going to a jug after those crimps,” Riley says.
I sigh, wishing it could all be done statically. The thing is, I don’t mind crimps—testing an edge to its limit, controlling how you weigh yourself beneath it, everything carefully considered. What I mind is hurling my body towards the unknown with a millisecond to decide whether to commit or bail. A literal leap of faith.
Riley’s eyes meet mine with earnestness.
I nod. Chalk up. Establish in silence. Breathe.
I’m attempting to make contact with the boulder, spiritually or otherwise, when all of a sudden, Riley rips an epic fart.
We burst into giggles like children, whole bodies heaving. I turn to the culprit, letting go of the start and basking in the newfound levity of our situation. No more pressure; just the two of us among redwoods and rock.
This time, I let my body move through the opening sequence with its own knowing. A clear mind when I meet the left-hand crimp. A Pacific wren’s song somewhere in the brush beyond. I spring up, airborne in an infinite moment, flying towards what I don’t know, and after some kind of forever, catch cold rock.
Above our heads, redwoods still sway and sun still shines. I exhale atop the mossy boulder, stunned by the type of flight too quick for memory. In its place sits a knowledge stored deep within the body: let intuition be your guide.
