While the dirtbag may be a dying breed, the insouciant idea of the dirtbag has captured much of climbing's soul. Living out of the truck, climbing every day, dumpster diving, scraping by with nothing but the fervor to climb. This certainly existed but in parallel to the hundreds of climbers who fed their addictions as weekend warriors. And where do Ron Kauk's Ford Broncos, John Bachar's Gillettes, and Chris Sharma's perfumes fall into the reimagination of the dirtbag?
What debt do we owe to other nations? Not in specific objective numbers that bounce around balance sheets, transferring wealth from elite to elite, but those amorphous calculations that never quite coalesce. Informal and black markets. Legacies of interference. Vagaries of chance.
#IAmMogadishu, but I want us to think of more than simply this moment. We don't think of Paris or London as memorial to atrocity. We can and should write ourselves better narratives than "this is something that happens over there." This is what we owe to Somalia.
Uncomfortable ghosts haunt our dreams, wearing us down. We haze their faces across memory, bright again every time we add to their ranks.