No one truly knew how long this pair of gloves hung there, dangling lifelessly on a rusted hook at the back of the small outdoor gear store. In a way, I felt like I understood them. Like the gloves, I had also been stagnant, waiting and hoping for someone to take me on an adventure worthwhile, and teleport me into a life that was fulfilling and worth living. The faint smell of leather and rubber mingled with the earthy aroma of canvas tents and weathered hiking boots lining the shelves, an atmosphere that felt as still and unmoving as I had been. Dust clung to the corners of the display racks, illuminated by the pale light coming from what remained of the fluorescent lightbulbs above.
All I know is they were the second-to-last left of their kind and really the only decent gloves available at this store. Their double-layered leather felt only a little stiff in my hands as I carried them to the checkout along with other last-minute supplies for an upcoming trip—a trip I hoped might finally shake me out of this inertia. Tomorrow, I would board a flight that, after a connection, would bring me to Fresno, California, with my final destination being Yosemite National Park. The gloves were a necessary purchase after winning permits to hike the cable section of Half Dome—an iconic hike I was lucky enough to secure on my first attempt. Little did I know they would become far more than just a tool for the climb; they would mark the start of something new, a shift from waiting to living.
Just days after arriving, our group settled into camp in the Yosemite Valley. The air was still filled with a light hint of smoke from fires weeks prior, lingering like a ghostly reminder of the forest's resilience. The acrid scent mixed with the sweet aroma of pine, carried on the breeze that barely eased the weight of the summer heat. Van loads of people arrived, their chatter blending with the distant waterfalls and occasional rustle of leaves, creating a symphony of life against the backdrop of towering granite cliffs and sprawling meadows. After cleaning up the dishes from dinner, we all settled into our tents, hoping for as much sleep as possible before our 3 a.m. wake-up call to begin the John Muir Trail towards Half Dome. Our headlamps and offline trail maps led our way through the dark, early morning hours. By the time we made it to Vernal Falls, a faint glow marked the beginning of dawn and a long day ahead of us. It was nearly lunchtime when we made it past Sub Dome to the cable section, and it was time to slip on our gloves and prepare for the 400-foot climb ahead of us. The boards were few and far between, and the grip of the leather gloves kept me afloat as I muscled through each section, trying my best not to look down. The way back down and back to camp was a blur of muscle cramps and nearly running out of water until I finally made it into my sleeping bag, which I refused to leave until 10 the next day.
The following days were brimming with adventure—trekking through breathtaking landscapes, sharing campfire stories under the darkest starlit skies, and marveling at the raw beauty of Yosemite's untouched wilderness. Each moment was a testament to the magic of exploration and the bonds forged in shared experiences. Yet, by the end of it all, a part of me longed for the comfort of home. I craved the familiar rhythm of my daily routine and the budding community that was starting to feel like family, a grounding force after the whirlwind of the trip. This trip began a shift in me, one that led me to realize the loneliness being on the road brought. Although I loved being in nature, I struggled with the inconsistency and worried about the money I had already invested in a school bus conversion.
As I arrived home, I was welcomed by loved ones and with the ever-lingering thought that it was time to readjust the goals and vision I was following. Over the next few months, I prepared my bus to be sold and learned to become more reliant on paid time off and long weekend adventures while staying close to my routines and the town I had only begun falling in love with. As the spring of 2023 began, my calendar quickly became filled with many new adventures, and I finally had the money to participate more after selling my bus.
In May, I received a last-minute call from a friend, who I hiked the Half Dome cables with, to join a whole new group to explore a cave in Northern Alabama. Lucky enough, I was available. We talked on the phone for a while, and he hashed out the directions to me including turning at a green mailbox and finding a gravel road across from a dilapidated trailer. I tried to remember and write it all down, but I clung to his last words before hanging up which were, “Don’t forget your gloves.”
After a two-hour drive through the straight and narrow road that leads Chattanooga traffic towards the northern part of Alabama, I found my way into a warm cabin full of some familiar and some new faces and the smell of the most delicious, marinated steak for the tacos I would shortly devour. Laughter and voices carrying on many different conversations filled the small living area of the cabin. We discussed our plans for the next day, played Mario kart, and settled into our spots for the night.
The following morning, I woke up to a refreshing wind coming through the back window I had left cracked open in my car, it complimented the humid heat well for the moments that it lasted. I put myself together and headed back into the house, which once again was filled with a delicious aroma—this one of coffee and bacon. We ate quickly and gathered our things, preparing for at least four to five hours of being inside a cave. I filled my pack full of snacks, water, extra layers, my first aid kit, and those mustard yellow leather and nylon gloves shoved to the bottom. Four cars packed full of people and gear headed toward the entrance gate to Tumbling Rock Cave. When we arrived, the area was filled with a thick cloud of fog, blocking us from seeing much of the surrounding area except the entrance into the cave.
We explored every crevice, crawled, and mantled our way into a waterfall canal and into a secret room that led to a nearly 100-foot underground waterfall. Our large group somehow managed to mostly stay together and find the correct path in the pitch-black darkness illuminated only by 12 individual headlamps dispersed depending on our speed or distractions that pulled some away. After a couple of hours inside and making it much deeper into the cave than I think any of us anticipated, we decided to turn around to make it back to stuff our faces with another delicious meal.
As we got in the groove of walking back—as you do in any typical out-and-back hikes—we discovered we had missed our turn by a long shot. Now we all had the choice to walk back to find a less steep section to climb down or slide down the rock surface to the lower portion of the cave. It wasn’t a huge drop, but still enough for those of us with any reservations to deem it not the best idea. However, some still attempted it. As one of the girls slid down, her body caught a groove in the rock, which led her to change directions and head straight into a random rock formation extruding out of the caves floor. From the impact and sharp surface, her hand was cut open. We shot into action with supplies from our first aid kit and used anything we had to wrap it up. After searching through our bags to find something else to cover her hand and keep the wrap intact, I pulled out a singular yellow glove from my pack. The glove was a little oversized on her little hands but did the job of keeping her hand covered on the way back out of the cave. She wore it again the next day as we rappelled into a different cave and kept it until she handed it off to Yoseph months later, just before he made his move to Chattanooga.
After his arrival in the city, I had grown to love, he sent me a text. He mentioned the glove he now had in his possession, a small but meaningful memento of our shared adventures, and extended an open invitation to join him on Tuesdays at Riverside. This climbing gym, known for its welcoming vibe and local community, seemed like the perfect place to rekindle my passion for climbing. The thought of reconnecting with both the sport and the people it attracted made the invitation feel significant, a gentle nudge toward building a new rhythm and finding a sense of belonging in this city I was finally beginning to call home.
After a few months of traveling and weird schedules, I finally made it to Tuesday climbing day and never stopped going. Tuesday climbing days quickly turned into most days climbing at the gym, climbing and camping trips, coffee hangs, and paddleboard adventures. Our crew continually grew, and over the following months, I met so many new people and explored more parts of this city and surrounding areas than I had in the last four years here.
One day, Yoseph finally gave the glove back to me, but at that point I realized I had lost the other one. As I set the singular glove on top of my washing machine—my version of a landing spot or junk drawer of random things—I couldn’t help but laugh. Since I bought these gloves two and a half years ago, my life has done a complete 180, and even more in the last year since they attempted to make their way back to me. I can’t help but wonder what would look different if I never picked these mustard yellow gloves off the rack that summer day in 2022.
Maybe I would have been too scared to hike the cables at Half Dome without them—the weight of their leather offering a tangible sense of security against the daunting ascent. Those mustard-yellow gloves, sturdy and reliable, seemed almost like an extension of my resolve, a quiet assurance that I could face the challenge ahead. Maybe I wouldn’t be surrounded by people that make each day more fulfilling and worthwhile. Maybe I wouldn’t have fallen back in love with climbing or had the confidence to climb in places all over the southeast, Colorado, and Wyoming. Maybe I wouldn’t have ever climbed the Second Flatiron or helped plan my new friend’s proposal at the top. If I never bought these gloves, I might not have recovered in the same way from the heartbreak I experienced in the months before I got my glove back. Most importantly, I cannot imagine finding the confidence to share my writing or adventures with so many if it wasn’t for the confidence instilled in me from my newfound community that came from a string of decisions starting with this one.
While they might not have been in my possession the entire time, these gloves have been witnesses to countless memories. They opened the door to adventure, but more importantly, they became a bridge to a sense of friendship and community unlike anything I'd ever known. Perhaps any pair of gloves could have served the same purpose, but I like to think these mustard-yellow Petzl belaying gloves had a unique magic. I eventually found the other glove to complete the pair and now they rest in my climbing pack, ready to accompany me or someone else on their next great adventure.
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