Friday the 13th

I can't believe I've already been here two weeks. I've had some insanely good weather, I'm nervous to talk about it for fear of nature's repercussion. If the sun keeps shining, I'll take it.

First and foremost, my mom's birthday is this weekend. I'm bummed I'll miss the dinner she is going to have this evening with my sisters, but Mama Sus is headed down to Phoenix this weekend and she'll have plenty of fun without me.

Today, I was out with my buddy Brian while he climbed. I needed a day of rest after thrashing myself over the previous few days at the crag. I got to hang out and just chill while Brian pulled down. Out at the wall, we ended up running into Erin and her boyfriend Keenan. Erin and Brian were peas in a pod while she was living out in Boulder over the past few years, and the reunion was great. She decided that the pull of the eternal climbing road trip was too much to resist, and left CO for Kentucky. The timing was fortuitous for me, as it was just then that I was looking for a room and moved in with Brian.

While we were all climbing together, we managed to get some pretty good pics of her climbing. There's been a clamor for more photos, so here are a bunch that should suffice for a bit.

I'll try to get a more in depth post in the next day or two, but I'm pretty ready to demolish the brownies that are about to pop out of the over here at Highlander. I hope everyone has a great start to the weekend.

A Mad (and furry) Man

The biggest development of the last few days has been my fast and furious (and now, sadly, finished) love affair with Mad Men. I could tell you about the climbing I've been doing, but I'll be realistic. After a certain point, the general public can only stand so much banality regarding crimps, high-steps, off-the-chart pump factor, and Metro Mark managing to epic while literally seated inside of a hueco. If anyone's truly interested in the climbing tales at this point, let me know. I'll do a post exclusively dedicated to tales from the crag. We'll call it "As The Cliff Turns".

Mikey "4x4" Personick had season 1 of Mad Men on DVD, but I realized it all too late. I managed to get through three of the four disks, but this left four full episodes from season 1 still to be viewed. That speaks nothing for season 2, and from amctv.com, it looks like they just finished season 3. I'm perpetually behind the curve of anything popular, so it shouldn't come as a shock that I've discovered hipness far too late in the game.

The very fact that I managed to get so far into season 1 is a testament to God's will and the power of caffeine. With the aid of several cups of coffee, I plowed through nine 48 minute episodes in two days. That's a shameful way to spend a life. It's like one of those benders where the last thing you remember was the Del Taco drive through, and then you wake up in a dumpster in San Juan, Puerto Rico. Ever have one of those? You just get up, dust yourself off, and hope no one saw you at your lowest. That's too much time to spend in front of a TV (or in the bottom of a trashcan, for that matter).

I'm hoping I can manage the remaining 30 0dd episodes at a more reasonable pace. Perhaps anyone coming out to The Red (ahem, DAN RICHELSON!!!) can manage to track down some of those missing shows.

From watching those episodes, I can't help but come to several conclusions. The first is that I should continue to wear a tie to work. Playing the suit card wouldn't go over particularly well, given that many of the folks I work with typically wear jeans. That said, I really should rock the slacks/tie/sweater combo, and wouldn't look entirely out of place. It doesn't necessarily replicate the "Camelot" look from 1960 corporate New York, but it's my best Western Cow Town impersonation of a fetching Don Draper.

The second realization: I've been enormously lucky to have had the opportunity to do exactly what I want for the month of November. Instead of being forced by society into an unrewarding role, as many of the characters of the show appear to have been, I'm actively pursuing one of my great passions. There are times, certainly, where it get's a bit strained. That's just the opportunity cost of life. At the end of it, though, this month is a chance to delve deeply into an activity that typically only comes in the short bursts of a weekend or afternoon. I'm breathing deeply the autumn air, trying to enjoy each present moment for what it is. The looming worry that sits intertwined with my insecurities for the future (love, career, health) are put aside as I focus only on the day at hand. What a beautiful way to live.

And less beautiful? My face. Sure, rest days out here are spent recovering from the climbing while working on my laptop. There's no dress code here at The Highlander Cabin, so I've taken the opportunity to sit in on conference calls while wearing a bathrobe, and write emails to the BLM from my bed. Since there's no face to face contact (though we're in a high tech world, my clients don't use video conferencing at this point, thank god), I'm taking the opportunity to put off the Colorado version of the Camelot appearance, and look effectively homeless.

To get the full effect, I had to increase the megapixel allowance and focus the light overhead precisely so, but now the question has been answered: What do I look like with a two week old crappy mustache/goatee combo?

As of now, I'm planning on running straight through until Thanksgiving before scraping it off. That should give the whole family a laugh when we gather at the farm to feast. I'll let it grow for another week or so, and then update the pic again. If it doesn't fill in, maybe I'll grab some Touch of Gray and fill in the wispy peach fuzz.

I'm off to write some more emails to hapless government employees back in CO, and work on my graduate school application.

A quick Happy Birthday to Tom Hare, my old roommate from Madrid. It was back then, while marauding around the Spanish streets, that we coined the term Abaluba. Life certainly is good, my friend.

A Quick Sunday Night Post Announcing the Arrival of a New Team Member

Hi, Voyeurs. I'm going to have to make this pretty quick, because I'm pretty tired after another great day of climbing here in Kentucky. Brian flew in on Saturday, and after a quick errand run in Lexington, I grabbed him from the airport and we headed down to the crags.

As you can imagine, he hopped off the plane and was really excited to get out and climb. We headed to Left Flank, a wall that is quickly off the Bert T. Combs Mountain Parkway and has a short approach. I got on basically the best 12b in the world, a long, stunningly pretty route called Mercy, The Huff. Brian worked on a 12d called Stunning the Hog, and stunningly didn't do it. I'm blaming the fact that it was late in the afternoon, he'd been on a plane all day, and he was trying to finish the route in the dark. He's still pissed about it, though, so I bet we'll be back there.

Today, he and I climbed down at the Solar Collector/Dark Side, two crags that couldn't be more different in terms of sun/shade aspect. I'll let you make the distinction. I'm still working to get miles on easier routes, but am getting a little frustrated that 12a here is still feeling down right hard. Oh well, I'll have to be patient.

Mike left this morning, which was a bit of a drag. It's always easier to climb with two people instead of three, so from that standpoint things are perhaps a bit more convenient for Brian and me, but I will admit that I enjoyed Mike's company. He was a fresh perspective, and I'm hoping we'll cross paths again soon. Blaming him for departing would be far from fair, though. He's climbed here, he said, 21 of the previous 28 days, and has some people he needs to get back to in DC. Family and a lady-friend are powerful magnets.

I'm off to Midnight Surf tomorrow for some more climbing. The forecast continues to look great, and I'm hoping that those weathermen are spot on. I'm planning a big rest day on Tuesday, and I'll try to get a better post then.

The one other thing of note is that I'm growing what can unarguably be considered the worst beard in the world. I like the idea of not shaving for a couple of weeks just to see what things would look like. After about 14 days, I'll honestly report that they are, in fact, bad. Whatever, though. I don't have to see clients, I'm not trying to impress any girls out here, and I like the fact that any time I look in a mirror, I laugh. (You guys probably thought that was already the case.)

Ok, I'm going to bed. Hope you all had a nice weekend.

Four Wheel Drive

After two more consecutive days of climbing, I've earned another rest day. On Friday, I'm going to sleep in, drink plenty of coffee, stretch and work. But first, I'm reporting on ass kicking. I kicked a few, but not to worry. I got mine whipped, too.

Wednesday morning's weather was the worst we've seen so far on my trip. Mike and I walked out to the car, his whippet Johnny Utah in tow, and all three of us looked up at the sky in disgust. The clouds, threatening rain, and chilly breeze gave us all pause. Mike wrapped Johnny in his faux-giraffe-pelt puppy snuggly (when's the last time you read those words in unison?) just as the hail started coming down.

(I guess it's called a Sunggy, not snuggly. How the hell am I supposed to know?)

We drove to the cliff, nervously sipping coffee and hoping for a change to come in the 20 or so minutes between "The Highlander" cabin and our destination climbing area, Sore Heel. When we parked the car and all hopped out to pee, the clouds shifted a bit and the sun broke through. But just as we started walking, the precip returned, along with some profanity.

The warmups at Bronaugh wall are good, steep, juggy 5.11's, but Mike and I both suffered from hand freeze at about mid height. We broke out the hand warmers and excuses, and I took things to an extreme when I stole the snuggly. I'll be damned if some mutt is gonna stay warm while my paws go numb.

But then, as though God were a feline and pleased with my treachery, a miracle occurred. The winds changed, the air temperature got much more comfortable, and the sun hit the wall. Mike and I both got excited, and figured we'd crush our projects. I wanted to do a 12c called Belly of the Beast, and he was still trying to polish off Dracula, a super stout 13b, at a cliff just around the corner.

We might have let the weather psyche us up a little too much, because each of our next two burns produced only punting. A foot slip here, a missed hold there, and we each spent our attempts dangling from the end of the rope, wondering just how Felix the CatGod could have forsaken us. After we had a little powwow and made a pact to "just finish these routes, already!", we sent on successive burns. It had taken the whole day, but at least we could check off the routes we wanted to do. We called it a little early and headed back to the car. There was talk of doing a couple of burns at Shady Grove, but we decided to save some juice for today.

When I woke up this morning, my left hamstring was throbbing. There was a rest on Belly that involved me cranking my leg up near my head and hooking my heel and toe behind some flakes. Though it took the weight off my hands, I felt like it also succeeded in nearly pulling my yoga-starved hammy. I stretched for a while, and it finally began to loosen up. After a leisurely morning, Mike and I loaded up and headed out to Shady Grove.

The air was much warmer, the sun was out, and it seemed like we were back on track for great weather all day. I warmed up on a cool route called Girls Gone Wild...Whoooo!, and then tried to do an 11c. Instead of waltzing right up to the chains, I fell a couple of times and assumed that my day would suck. No bother, as Mike wanted to do the second ascent of a brand new route at the crag. We walked down to this towering behemoth, a route Mike had been on once before. He figured that it checked in at around 13a/b. Mike had warmed up by hanging the draws on a steep, long 12b called Far From God, which doubled as my objective for the day.

Mike used this warm up to prep for his pending vision quest, and managed to pull off the send of the new route. It was only his third route of the day, but he decided to call it and conserve a little juice for the weekend. Watching Mike do the route, I couldn't help but think that he climbs in four wheel drive. He uses his feet perfectly; hooking and pulling his way up the wall with all four appendages instead of using his arms to excess. He looks so comfortable using his feet like hands, and it's a great lesson. I took it to heart, and after lowering him off after his send, booted up under Far From God.

I really wanted to flash this route. It looked like I could get plenty of rests along the way, and Mike had done it several times before. This let him guide me through the difficult sections while we were still on the ground, giving me all the beta (essentially step-by-step advice for how to do the moves) that I could ask for. All I had to do was climb the thing. I threw on the knee pads, assuming I'd find places to jam my knees and take the weight off my hands. Also, I told myself to "be like Mike" and use my feet. With that, I started climbing.

I managed to finagle two double knee bar, no hands rests, along with several other knee scums. The beta was perfect, and I found myself a bolt from the top, still on redpoint, listening to Mike yell up that if I could make it through the final crux, just above me, then there was no way I'd fall on the final run to the anchors. I was camped out at a ridiculously good rest, and when I felt 100% recovered and at full strength, I danced to the chains and claimed my first flash of a 12b. Thanks for all the help, Mikey P!

Getting a little big for my britches, I moved the rope under the next route over. False Idol is a 12c that Mike assured me was not much harder than Far From God. After I rested for a while, I loaded my harness with quickdraws and pulled onto the wall. Mike had only done this one once (hence, could provide only minimal beta), and since he was done for the day, I'd have to hang the draws on the bolts myself. I figured that I'd just crushed its neighbor...why worry?

I'll spare you many of the details, because this post is getting pretty long. False Idol is widely considered an inferior route, and sees much less traffic than the slightly easier model to the left. As such, there is way less chalk, and way more dirt, on all the holds. By bolt three, I had wandered only about 3 feet from the grips I was supposed to be pulling on, and quickly managed to rain gravel down into my gaping mouth. Shit. The plan was out the window. I shifted out of 4-high, and started straining on my arms. My heart started racing, my breathing fell apart. Hypoxia, my old friend, had returned. As had gravity's strong call. Airborn. Ass kicked. I yarded up the rope and then wallowed to the chains, seemingly 1,000 feet away. Tail between my legs, I lowered off and cleaned my draws off the route.

How about we just focus on the positive and move on? All in all, it was a great day and a lesson learned. You gotta keep rock climbing, and just 'cause you did one thing doesn't mean they're giving anything else away. By the way, Mike sent an email to the guy who bolted the route he did today. We're trying to get it called 4 wheel drive. And, from here on out, that's how I'm trying to climb.

Recharging the Batteries

In homage, unintentional I'm sure, to the homes along the Pacific in Carmel, CA, the cabins in this part of Kentucky all seem to have names. While in California, the monikers elude to whispering pines or ocean breezes. The rustic buildings here in the East are a bit more colloquial. Just up from "City Slickers" and "The Barn," our cabin is known as "The Highlander Loft." Because, you know, there can be only one.

And it's from The Highlander that I'm reporting to you on my rest day. I'm taking a very necessary respite from the rigors of climbing. After two days on the rock, the skin on my fingers felt like it had been caressing the business end of a cheese grater. My back felt like it had seen one too many kicks from steel toed boots, and my forearms were Popeye sized; not from muscle, but lactic acid buildup.

Aside from working on Abaluba, I was working for a large part of the day to catch up with clients back in Denver. What better activity, since I've got to sit idle anyway, than to make a little money? Let's all take a minute to thank the benefactors that gave us cell phones, the internet, and Adobe Acrobat. Without their hard work and tireless pursuit of Rupees, I'd be stranded out here in the wilds of Kentucky with only the sale of my plasma, organs and semen as viable means of income. As it stands, I've kept all of them to myself, thank you very much, all the while scratching up some billable hours from the comfort of the cabin and my pajama pants.

Tomorrow, though, and there will be no such relaxation. Mike and I are headed back to our nemeses; each of us with renewed energy and fresh skin on our fingers. I'm hoping to see some of the work from the first two days pay quick returns in the form of boosted endurance. If I can manage to get all of 4 bolts off the ground on any 5.12 without my eyes crossing, I'll consider it a success. I'm going to try to send Belly of the Beast over at Bronaugh, and Mike is going to hike Dracula at a crag called Purgatory.

(A stranger on Belly of the Beast)

I'm hoping to meet up with another friend, Christopher Lawrence, tomorrow out at the crag. He and I met basically a year ago to the day out here in The Red. He's a pro photographer who is looking to take a few shots, and with some luck, I'll have something other than the hand held images from my small point and shoot camera.

Here is a shot from the back deck of The Highlander. Not a bad view. I've charged my camera battery, so even if Christopher doesn't take pics, I'll have some photos to upload on the next blog. Until then, this will have to suffice.

Day 1

If my first day in The Red was any indication, this trip is going to be amazing. God, I hope I don't jinx it, but the weather was perfect today for climbing. Upper 50's with great sun, no clouds, and minimal wind. I wound up at Purgatory and Bronaugh (however the hell you spell it,) and had a great day with my buddy Mike.

My fitness was pretty good, considering that I'd been unable to climb or train much over the past two weeks because of a really sore shoulder and back. Physically, all is well after the time off, and I think the respite renewed my excitement. I got on an incredible 12C called Belly of the Beast, as well as put some mileage in on an easier 12 called Little Teapot, and a couple of really fun, juggy 5.11's.

The cabin setup is really comfortable, especially given the juxtaposition against my spring trip. Back then, my tent was getting soaked in daily rainstorms, I was crippled from a really sore finger, and was in the middle of the angst with Kate. I'm feeling a lot better all around, and if it stays sunny, I'll have absolutely nothing to complain about.

The Man, The Myth, The Legend, the roommate, Brian Lichtenheld, is coming next weekend, so the plan is to continue the positive vibes right through the week until he gets here and brings more Colorado psyche to replenish the coffers.

Highlight of the day? Cupcakes that Kitsy Parrish sent with me as I was leaving Louisville this morning. There's not much as good as pulling down all day with a smile on your face, and then getting home to a chocolate bomb. Yes!

Lift off! We have lift off...

I blasted out of Boulder right as, ironically, Boulder was getting blasted. The snow was national news, I'm told. I'm just happy I wasn't involved in any multicar pileups, thereby becoming state and local news of my own.

I rolled out along US 36 at the ungodly hour of 5:30 AM, one of the relatively few cars to brave the conditions so early in the morning. That was precisely my plan, and I was happy to find myself in that more secure isolation as I fishtailed Eastward, throwing a blinding spray of slop out from behind my rear tires. As the sun rose, confirming Eastern Colorado as the gray, desolate pall we'd all suspected, I smiled mightily. I had begun my long anticipated road trip, and it had started safely.

The first stop on the agenda was The Farm, an effort to spend time with my aging maternal grandparents. Their presence on those sacred 220 acres in central Missouri is embedded in my memory, and there it will invariably remain. The beauty of our family's rolling retreat is nuanced, as is the case with any location blessed with being central to a sense of home, but stricken of crashing waves or snow capped mountains.

I arrived at sunset, bearing witness to the pink clouds, bloated with rain, rolling over our fields and pond. That evening, vast liquid nourishment was provided to both. Perhaps my western upbringing has left me overly sensitized to precipitation, but I'm always stunned that any place can be so verdant and lush. While it poured down, my grandparents shared stories of their own memories on the place, and then of raising a family in the peripatetic ethos (chaos) of America's Air Force. The three of us came together with The Farm as the literal and imagined backdrop for our shared histories. The Farm, though also baseball and shuffleboard. Let's not forget that we're in 2009. I didn't milk any cows or anything.

After 36 hours with Grandma and PawPaw, the urge to revisit the interstate returned, and I hugged and kissed them farewell. They'll be the terminal bookend of my road trip, as well, when I turn Abigale the Subaru Westward and head for home. I'll stop for Thanksgiving on my return leg to Colorado, meeting with many more folks (aunts, uncles, and cousins, oh my) who remember their own youth occasionally played out on the same background.

I rolled up Rural Route N, then J, and headed further East on I-70, this time to St Louis. Though the city is the Gateway to the West, for me it's actually the gateway to East. From here, I can begin to smell the Red, can feel my fingertips begin their sweaty longing for sandstone. I'll be climbing in only a few days, though I'm still patiently meandering, still renewing acquaintance with old familiar sites and faces.

The first place I saw upon my arrival in STL was the university where I spent my first year of college. At 18, I ran to St Louis University in a snap, lazy decision to flee the anger I felt towards my father in particular, and boredom with Colorado in general. The first year was largely spent in halfhearted academic pursuit in the classroom, and in earnest attempted violence on the lacrosse fields. I marked time until I would flee, this time as a sophomore, for Spain.

To portray the year in St Louis as stolid would be an unfair assessment. My freshman year was spent in between many things, though firmly committed to none. I was uncomfortable with myself and unsure of where I was going, though not yet ready to forswear my origins. I remember with great clarity saying goodbye to my parents as they dropped me off for the academic year, wondering where I'd go now that I was no longer under my parents' thumb. The tears that this goodbye produced in my angry eyes were hastily pushed back into their ducts, though that sadness of leaving my youth hasn't been forgotten.

Today, from the very paving stone where I last remember my mother standing as she and my father left me for college, I called Mom in Colorado. I told her I loved her, and shared a reminiscent moment with her. Each of us remembered the day in 2000 with clarity, though it was subtly different to this autumn afternoon over nine years later. Today, the air was thick with the smell of french fries. Perhaps they weren't on the menu back then.

Tonight, this city will again act as a gateway, this time to my past as I'll see two friends I've kept from my days at school in the SLU system. Soon, though, I'll grow anxious, again, and aim the wheels, again, to the East. My plan is to stop in Louisville to greet one of my closest friends, Neil, and his parents in their home city. Their family is coping with the loss of Neil's grandmother. The news was all the more poignant given that my phone rang with the sad acknowledgment of her passing just yesterday while I was in the new farmhouse with my own elders. I'm glad to have seen them then, and will honor my friendship with Neil before I drive the final two hours and arrive in the Red.

Climbing can wait, at least for a few days. This drive is, certainly, a mode of transit to that outstanding recreational destination. Equally important, though, it's a way to reconnect with my friends and family, and my own past. I hope to honor all of them with some precious time. It's been a pleasure so far. I'll keep you up to date as the miles pass.

Love from Abaluba.

Sunday Morning Observations

Not the religious type, as I'm a skeptical man who prefers sleep to sacraments. But I have a few things I've noticed this morning, Sunday, October 25, 2009.

I'm getting ready to leave for the Red on Wednesday. I'm alternatively enormously excited and a bit nervous. My first climbing day won't be for a week from today because I'll stop for a day at the farm to visit Grandma and Grandpa, and then again in St. Louis to see Vino and Nicole. In Louisville, I'm going to swing in for at least a "hello" with Neil's parents. That will break up the cross country drive well, but keep my pace slow.

I'm excited for the reason most obvious to any rock climber. The Red offers limitless climbing opportunities. The rock is beautiful, the routes number in the thousands, and the steep walls ensure a nasty fitness after enough time.

But behind the carefree optimism that could come to someone else, I'm nervous. My back has been hurting, and I want it to get better before I get there. Today I'm at around 75%, which is a marked improvement from three days ago. On Thursday, I couldn't even climb, but in a testament to the sole focus that personifies my life, I went to the gym, anyway. I figured I'd stretch and hang out with friends. Instead, my friends climbed, many of them with their sig-oh's, and I, coincidentally, saw my old college girlfriend and caught up with her. And then, I watched them climb and felt a twinge of jealousy. I just wanted to train. I want to be fit. I want to justify the fact that climbing is enormously important to me. You can't do that climbing 5.11.

I hope the weather will be good, and the cabin will let me relax. I wonder about driving across the country by myself. I still need to apply to grad school, and will have to do it while I'm in KY. I still need to finish my work for the Access Fund, but it's increasingly looking like I'll have to do it there, as well.

__________________________________________________________________

Back here in CO, I noticed that the coffee beans smell amazing. If I had to choose between smelling coffee and drinking it, and could only have one, the smell would win in a landslide.

Yesterday, my friend Dan did a route called Anarchitect down in Clear Creek. If you remember, I wrote about it around the time of my Greece trip last summer. I think that route has to be one of the best in CCC. Way to go, Danny!

Thinking about Anarchitect, it's interesting to see where my life has gone since I did that route. If, as I was lowering to the ground right after I finished the route, you'd have told me that on the horizon were a bust up with a lot of my family, a painfully slow and cautious reentry, and a break up with Kate, I would have told you to piss off. That's exactly what happened though, and I'm still trying to make sense of it. Maybe the Red will help with some clarity.