The past weighed heavily on my mind as I set out for Boston on the last road trip of the summer season. As a damn Yankee, the patriot state has always felt a bit like enemy territory.
On route I was to meet some local climbers at a storied quasi-secret crag. Traveling through the meandering hills I decide that that was an oxymoron I could appreciate.
At Farley Ledges (oops), beta is a word of mouth affair. Sometimes an oral history is more vivid than a written account. You see a climb and maybe you’ll pick up a name and rating. It’s a throwback to the olde days, before cell phones, MountainProject or guide books. Nothing but gneiss rock and good company.
I don’t love to ski. I don’t see the first snowflake as something out of a magical Disney movie. I dislike being cold, and would rather be wrap in a blanket with a mug of cocoa, next to a roaring fire. Skiing isn’t my passion, but I do it. I trudge through snow in clunky boots that weigh me down.
