On Rage and Release

My First Time to Yosemite

Since I was a boy, I’ve always admired “the roar.” For reasons unknown, I have carried the long need to absolutely howl myself into oblivion. It’s weird to say this, but I don’t think I’m the only one. I think many others can relate. 

There have been moments at concerts that were a close fit. Yelling “yeah” in between verses certainly hits a sweet spot. My dear friend Chris once witnessed one when we saw Jurassic 5 live at Outside Lands. He later told me that my “yeah” was a boost of lightning. I appreciated that. 

It was not enough.

What is critical of a roar is that the thing getting the roar (for it’s not an at something but an of something) needs to match the intensity. It needs to be something that warrants this purging bellow in a 1:1 match. I have put countless words towards trying to describe this in my life. 

But I’ve had this once in my life. 

The same Chris would later organize a trip to Yosemite Valley. If you haven’t seen it before, know it is correct to describe this place as sacred. One of the days we would take the hike to Yosemite Falls, and absolutely massive tumble of water and energy. 

Our hike took us near the base of it. The wind was strong, and the water surged off the rock. All passing through the bridgeway were drenched instantly. We laughed as we watched each of get utterly soaked in seconds. On the other side, I left my things with my then-girlfriend and went back to it.

I opened my arms, my chest, my voice and raged into the water. It was a flood of old anger, joy, and amazement. In the water, I was washed. 

More soon,

Trevor

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