I planned it that way when I signed up for classes; I was extra careful not to sign up for anything that had any resemblance of commitment on Thursdays. Of course, Fridays off would be preferable, but a free Thursday is surprisingly good for the soul. Wednesdays are a hundred percent more bearable when immediately followed by an almost-Saturday.
Every day I obsessively check the weather forecasts for the next week. It's one of the first things I do when I get out of bed. I usually don’t look at Rexburg, though. What do I care if it’s going to snow here? That wouldn’t stop me from going to school or the grocery store or any of the other Wednesdayish things that I do in town. I don’t check the weather to see if I need a jacket. I’m looking for the perfect winter climbing day.
We had one in January. At Massacre Rocks State Park, a 200 foot cliff rears silent and black from the bank of the Snake River. It faces south, baking in the sun all day. One lucky Saturday, the mercury was at 35 and the sun was out. Russell’s battered old jeep slogged through the snow and the mud, and Mike spastically hollered “Yeah! Party party party!” every time we hit a puddle.
The wall was sandy and littered with loose blocks, but being back on real stone in the middle of the winter made me feel free as the hawks circling above. My cup was full as we arrived back at the jeep with the sun going down. I know that day wasn’t one in a million, so I check the weather. Every. Single. Day.
Monday morning my alarm clock rang. On my computer I saw a little sun icon next to the number 59. And on Thursday. My day off. Choruses of angels.
Tuesday the alarm clock rang, and the weather still looked good. With a little flutter in my stomach I realized that I could even make the four hour drive to the City of the Rocks. At my current stage in life, I’m having a hard time making any distinction between the white granite spires of the City and the gold-paved streets of the Celestial Kingdom.
Wednesday the clock rang. Rain tomorrow.
Obviously Yahoo had caught on to my habits and was trying to play a cruel joke. I called Russell and made sure that he hadn’t succumbed to the propaganda. Luckily, he’s more fanatical than I. We were still on. To be prudent, we chose a much closer cliff.
Thursday afternoon I found myself under an arching roof of stone, wind-battered and desperately trying to grip the rock with numb hands. It wasn't 59 degrees. It wasn't sunny. And I had the time of my life.
Thank heaven for Thursdays.
Photo by Mike Womack, Editing by Sam Perkins
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