I had to call the front desk in a bit of a panic. Almost all the channels here in my hotel room were working fine. The lone exception was ESPN. Instead of the football game, all I could see was a jumble of paralyzed, scrambled pixels. Hummm. I'm out of town for work, and don't have too much else to do this evening. I'd done some Christmas shopping, exercise, and answered all the emails. Gorged on pub grub (as it always seems to be when I don't have access to my kitchen) and, basically, bored. I felt that the spectacle of the NFL, violence in shoulder pads and shown in HD, would probably do wonders for the speed of the evening. With nothing but static, my plan looked almost as stalled as my screen. WWGPAD? What would Grandpa Do?
Over Thanksgiving, I had some time to sit with my the old colonel, Don Arth, and just hang out on his terms. Most of the time, that meant in his garage, tinkering on some home improvement project under a wall of tools. That was just fine with me. When I was younger, I didn't take much of an interest in anything mechanical. I didn't have a house or a car that could constantly require preemptive attention, and likely just assumed that I'd just call in a handy man any time something wasn't working. You know what? That gets expensive.
When I bought my Sprinter (officially known as Capt. Walter C. Lewis, US Navy (Ret.)) and started planning the RV conversion, I was probably still working under that mindset. I came up with most of the conceptual design after consulting with a bunch of my friends who had already done their own van build-outs. Instead of building out the bad/bench/table set, wiring the lights and house battery, and installing the new stereo, I just searched out a professional, wrote the check, and called it a day.
Vans, if you haven't heard, are really good at two things. Primarily, the deliver the ultimate climbing and road trip experience to the vertically inclined ruffian. "Dirtbag fabulous," as Josh says. I've spent a ton of time driving around in my beloved Subaru, Abbie, and even though those days in Rifle, The Red, and Indian Creek were wonderful, the car wasn't exactly the tipping point. This spring and summer alone, I've "vanned" it in Red Rocks, The Valley, again in Indian Creek, but those trips were in the care of my buddies Josh Finkelstein and Madaleine Sorkin. After being so kindly treated by their four wheeled mansions, I realized I had to get one of my own. But then comes the van's second best trait; the ability to need a little more attention than your average vehicle.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Friday, December 3, 2010
Mike Patz and The Evictor
"Oh, but the moves are so good! Up in Eldo, climbing at The Rincon Wall. Sun shining so warm that even early December feels slippery. Those finger locks that are just good enough to let you climb past, but not hang out for too long. A few edges just where your feet absolutely need them. Even checking things out on top-rope, you were engaged. Your mind found the meditative state, the flowstate. The Place that climbing can deliver your pilgrim ass better than any extant transportation vehicle now at hand. (Except maybe music). You wanna go back. You want to get it figured out with the safety of that TR, and then you wanna pull the rope and see how it feels to climb it for real. You wanna go back. There's no denying that little fact."
My brain will exercise its incessant need to forget what I'm actually doing at any other given instant, and return my mental energies to that climb. Like any good climbing route that's just above one's physical, mental, and/or emotional pay grade, this is starting to take the form of obsession. I am nervous to admit, but I might have found a new project.
I noticed my mind first starting to stray toward The Evictor while I was dripping sweat in a yoga class this afternoon. The studio is miles from Eldo. There's no real reason to mentally be up on a wall while I'm physically in a yoga class, right in the middle of a perfectly nice warrior variation. My wonderful girlfriend not 12 inches away, and I started thinking about the crux sequence. "Stay in the stem. Elevator the hands up the seam. Oh, God. I can't believe that left hand works. Right hand next. Left foot up...stand up. Stand up. Tense and stand up. Breathe."
My brain will exercise its incessant need to forget what I'm actually doing at any other given instant, and return my mental energies to that climb. Like any good climbing route that's just above one's physical, mental, and/or emotional pay grade, this is starting to take the form of obsession. I am nervous to admit, but I might have found a new project.
I noticed my mind first starting to stray toward The Evictor while I was dripping sweat in a yoga class this afternoon. The studio is miles from Eldo. There's no real reason to mentally be up on a wall while I'm physically in a yoga class, right in the middle of a perfectly nice warrior variation. My wonderful girlfriend not 12 inches away, and I started thinking about the crux sequence. "Stay in the stem. Elevator the hands up the seam. Oh, God. I can't believe that left hand works. Right hand next. Left foot up...stand up. Stand up. Tense and stand up. Breathe."
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Planning a Reunion for the Holidays
My good friend Neil is turning, gasp, a healthy 30 just after New Years, and his wife Heidi decided to plan something cool for him. A party, of sorts. Since they will be in Neil's hometown of "Luhvull," Kentucky right around Christmas, coinciding with the return home of many of their longtime friends, Heidi invited a big crew of people out for a night of celebration. Pizza and beers downtown. After a long chat with Neil last night, I decided to book a ticket, and so after not more than three days of being back, I'm scheduled to return to Kentucky.
This trip isn't about the climbing. In fact, I'm just going to be in town for a little more than 36 hours. Even so, it's hugely worth it. Neil is a closer friend to me than just about anyone else in my life, and between that bond and the fact that another close buddy, Ethan, will be there, I couldn't turn down the chance to see him at a celebration in his honor.
It isn't like Neil and I never get to see each other. In fact, I drove down to his home in Knoxville, TN while I was out in The Red. That quick hello was superficially more convenient, so in deference of the fact that he's reached a milestone, I wanted to express in my actions the fact that he means more to me than just someone who I would see while passing through.
Ethan isn't exactly a stranger, either. He and I manage to put together a yearly skiing trip, and usually find a good excuse to hang out at least one other time during a calendar year. He lives in Burlington, VT, though, and so it isn't quite as easy to happen by his house if I'm on a big climbing trip to Yosemite or The Southeast. Being both a medical resident and new father doesn't help to ease our scheduling, either. In spite of the geographical distance between us and the other easy excuses, Ethan shocks me in his ability to hop in the car or onto a plane and meet up with me regularly. He's picked me up in Chicago when my connecting flight to Louisville was canceled. He's booked enough tickets to Squaw, Jackson Hole, and Denver that I'm sure some of his other flights were paid on miles. I wanted to live up to a lot of the sacrifices he's made to get out West in an effort to keep our friendship up to date with face to face contact. As soon as I heard that he was going to be at the party as well, I had to book the flight.
It's good for me to keep up with those people who have shaped my life, made me a better and kinder person. Some of them were woven into long stretches of my life's fabric. Semesters in Spain. Seasons in New Zealand. Summers in Boulder. Other people were bursts of immediate energy that lasted only a little while, in a particular location. Still, these interactions shaped me too. The connections I have with them endures, as well.
I'll tell some of their stories soon.
This trip isn't about the climbing. In fact, I'm just going to be in town for a little more than 36 hours. Even so, it's hugely worth it. Neil is a closer friend to me than just about anyone else in my life, and between that bond and the fact that another close buddy, Ethan, will be there, I couldn't turn down the chance to see him at a celebration in his honor.
It isn't like Neil and I never get to see each other. In fact, I drove down to his home in Knoxville, TN while I was out in The Red. That quick hello was superficially more convenient, so in deference of the fact that he's reached a milestone, I wanted to express in my actions the fact that he means more to me than just someone who I would see while passing through.
Ethan isn't exactly a stranger, either. He and I manage to put together a yearly skiing trip, and usually find a good excuse to hang out at least one other time during a calendar year. He lives in Burlington, VT, though, and so it isn't quite as easy to happen by his house if I'm on a big climbing trip to Yosemite or The Southeast. Being both a medical resident and new father doesn't help to ease our scheduling, either. In spite of the geographical distance between us and the other easy excuses, Ethan shocks me in his ability to hop in the car or onto a plane and meet up with me regularly. He's picked me up in Chicago when my connecting flight to Louisville was canceled. He's booked enough tickets to Squaw, Jackson Hole, and Denver that I'm sure some of his other flights were paid on miles. I wanted to live up to a lot of the sacrifices he's made to get out West in an effort to keep our friendship up to date with face to face contact. As soon as I heard that he was going to be at the party as well, I had to book the flight.
It's good for me to keep up with those people who have shaped my life, made me a better and kinder person. Some of them were woven into long stretches of my life's fabric. Semesters in Spain. Seasons in New Zealand. Summers in Boulder. Other people were bursts of immediate energy that lasted only a little while, in a particular location. Still, these interactions shaped me too. The connections I have with them endures, as well.
I'll tell some of their stories soon.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Writing
Free form here. Just gonna rattle for a bit.
I've got this fantasy that I'll someday actually write something of note. A screenplay, perhaps. When I'm being more realistic, I sense that it will actually take the form of a series of essays. I think that format would be a better fit for me because I don't take the time to actually plan or outline anything. Hence the blog populated with little more than isolated, esoteric ramblings that are ultimately little more than a chronicle of my daily location and cosmetic feeling. The one post I'm actually proud of is the one that talked about the trip up The Salathe. And I find no coincidence that this was the one I actually worked on.
Fuck! Get it together. This is more of the same.
Take out a notebook and think up a story.
I've got this fantasy that I'll someday actually write something of note. A screenplay, perhaps. When I'm being more realistic, I sense that it will actually take the form of a series of essays. I think that format would be a better fit for me because I don't take the time to actually plan or outline anything. Hence the blog populated with little more than isolated, esoteric ramblings that are ultimately little more than a chronicle of my daily location and cosmetic feeling. The one post I'm actually proud of is the one that talked about the trip up The Salathe. And I find no coincidence that this was the one I actually worked on.
Fuck! Get it together. This is more of the same.
Take out a notebook and think up a story.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Home Again
As you can probably imagine, returning to Boulder after nearly 5 weeks away is proving to be quite the jarring experience. I'm not sure if it was the necktie, perhaps tied too tightly, or the fact that I'd taken the stairs instead of the elevator from the 6th to the 11th floor of my office building, but when I walked in for a meeting and found myself short of breath, I knew something wasn't quite right. I'm worried that once you start taking extended, enormously fun climbing trips, "reality" just isn't quite as cool.
Looking back, I had one of the most incredible experiences over this past month. I'd told myself (and ex-girlfriends who were probably hoping for a more "normal" looking life) that I didn't want a van, but after driving across the country to the best sport climbing in America in a rig built for a dirtbag king, I realize I might have been lying. Capt. Walter C. Lewis, US Navy (Ret.) is, perhaps, the greatest machine ever made. There are still some details that need to be finished, but even in the rig-in-progress, I was as content and happy as I could imagine.
The climbing proved to be just as good. We had another month of perfect weather, and the friends from this trip provided great partners for climbing days and relaxing evenings. I even had Julia to hang out with, as she came out towards the end of the trip and got to see what all this road trip commotion is all about.
Happily, I can report that I managed to finish Table of Colors. That route is this marvelous book end on either side of the last year of my life. I'm not sure I've ever tried a route that many times, and nearly faltered under the pressure of knowing that if I didn't get it done in the allotted time, I'd have to drive home, all 1,500 miles, empty handed. It took me the better part of a week from last year's trip, and another 4 days of this year's, but I was able to send The Red River Gorge's first 5.13, and one of its absolutely most beautiful lines.
Between Kentucky and Colorado, we stopped by The Farm for the Thanksgiving feast. Normally, I'm kind of a scrooge when it comes to the annual potato ingestion, but there was so much positivity going on this year in central Missouri that even I found it hard to frown. The food was incredible, and we tried to cook up enough veggies to make it almost healthy. The friends and family that was gathered there came together to provide a really caring, positive backdrop. Knowing that my grandparents are getting a bit older, and suffering from some deteriorating health also added to the motivation to find presence in each moment, and create a wonderful reality.
That, primarily, was my focus while I was on this trip. It can be so easy to marvel at the fun and beauty of a day when you're doing exactly what you love with people that you care about. For me, that is many times climbing with friends. But what I've come to realize is that a climbing trip like this, so filled with present mindfulness and satisfaction in the moment, is hopefully an analog to what I want to feel all the time, regardless of situation or backdrop. For me, right now, the goal of being alive is to realize that I exist in the precise moment of my life, and to appreciate all the gifts that come with that. I can't always be climbing, or be in a situation that is basically free from hardship. I can, however, realize that to fully experience, learn from, and grow from each day, I have to know that I'm in the midst of it.
As such, it's good to be back home. I'm happy to settle into a routine that should (hopefully) allow me to earn some money before the holidays. I'm not quite ready to strap on the skis, but with a forecast that's calling for high 50's and sun in and around Boulder on Friday, I may not have to. Hell, even if it looks crappy outside today, I've got friends in the gym and a turkey-leftover feast in the fridge. ABALUBA!
Looking back, I had one of the most incredible experiences over this past month. I'd told myself (and ex-girlfriends who were probably hoping for a more "normal" looking life) that I didn't want a van, but after driving across the country to the best sport climbing in America in a rig built for a dirtbag king, I realize I might have been lying. Capt. Walter C. Lewis, US Navy (Ret.) is, perhaps, the greatest machine ever made. There are still some details that need to be finished, but even in the rig-in-progress, I was as content and happy as I could imagine.
The climbing proved to be just as good. We had another month of perfect weather, and the friends from this trip provided great partners for climbing days and relaxing evenings. I even had Julia to hang out with, as she came out towards the end of the trip and got to see what all this road trip commotion is all about.
Happily, I can report that I managed to finish Table of Colors. That route is this marvelous book end on either side of the last year of my life. I'm not sure I've ever tried a route that many times, and nearly faltered under the pressure of knowing that if I didn't get it done in the allotted time, I'd have to drive home, all 1,500 miles, empty handed. It took me the better part of a week from last year's trip, and another 4 days of this year's, but I was able to send The Red River Gorge's first 5.13, and one of its absolutely most beautiful lines.
Between Kentucky and Colorado, we stopped by The Farm for the Thanksgiving feast. Normally, I'm kind of a scrooge when it comes to the annual potato ingestion, but there was so much positivity going on this year in central Missouri that even I found it hard to frown. The food was incredible, and we tried to cook up enough veggies to make it almost healthy. The friends and family that was gathered there came together to provide a really caring, positive backdrop. Knowing that my grandparents are getting a bit older, and suffering from some deteriorating health also added to the motivation to find presence in each moment, and create a wonderful reality.
That, primarily, was my focus while I was on this trip. It can be so easy to marvel at the fun and beauty of a day when you're doing exactly what you love with people that you care about. For me, that is many times climbing with friends. But what I've come to realize is that a climbing trip like this, so filled with present mindfulness and satisfaction in the moment, is hopefully an analog to what I want to feel all the time, regardless of situation or backdrop. For me, right now, the goal of being alive is to realize that I exist in the precise moment of my life, and to appreciate all the gifts that come with that. I can't always be climbing, or be in a situation that is basically free from hardship. I can, however, realize that to fully experience, learn from, and grow from each day, I have to know that I'm in the midst of it.
As such, it's good to be back home. I'm happy to settle into a routine that should (hopefully) allow me to earn some money before the holidays. I'm not quite ready to strap on the skis, but with a forecast that's calling for high 50's and sun in and around Boulder on Friday, I may not have to. Hell, even if it looks crappy outside today, I've got friends in the gym and a turkey-leftover feast in the fridge. ABALUBA!
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Sanctuary Crushing
Good news. The CO crew headed out to Muir Valley and the crown jewel crag of the area; The Sanctuary. Josh, Seth, Brian and I had been there one day prior on this trip, and we'd sussed out a little knowledge of three of the best climbs there. Prometheus Unbound, Jesus Wept, and Triple Sec are absolute classics...all in that 12+, 13- grade range, and by far some of the best in the area.
Seth was able to finish off Triple Sec, and Brian and I both did Jesus Wept.
Here are some pics of Seth:
Seth was able to finish off Triple Sec, and Brian and I both did Jesus Wept.
Here are some pics of Seth:
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Back at The Highlander
Oy.
Back here at The Highlander cabin, backdrop to last year's RRG adventure, and psyched at the comfort. This place is a bit nicer than the cabin where we'd spent each evening of the last week. In the end, the cabin doesn't make or break the trip, but having slightly nicer accommodations makes a subtle difference. For now, it's just Brian (arrived yesterday), Josh, and his brother Seth. Nick and Robin should come down tomorrow after they took a day or so off and headed back to Ohio. That will tighten up the personal diffusion of space, but they add a sense of humor and smart conversation that is great.
These last couple of days have been unparalleled. The weather had taken a bit of a dive at the end of last week, but the weekend was cold, sunny and crisp...perfect for trusting the friction, believing in the eternal lightness of a sport wanker's soul, and really going for it. As an aside, I hear my buddy Andrew did his long standing project Living in Fear out in Rifle. Congrats! I'm assuming he had good fall temps out there in western CO, as well. It does feel so damn good to send...
With the posse here in KY, we've been like locusts on the prowl. We went out to The Sanctuary today, and all spread out to see the highest regarded climbs. Brian nearly onsighted Prometheus Unbound, doing it second try. I had two really quality burns on Jesus Wept, one hanging from the second draw on that second go. Josh and Seth both worked on the powerful and bouldery Triple Sec. The excitement that was in the air was really contagious. It was so easy to look out at the leaves falling off the trees, backlit by a fading sun, and think about how wonderful an experience it was. I'm so damn lucky. I get to do what I really like to do, a lot. I've got a big group of supportive people, have been blessed with youth and health and passion. As my buddy Rob has said, "we're gonna be shoveling a lot of shit in the next lifetime to make up for this one."
Yesterday was just as good. The Finkelstein's and I headed out to Funk Rock to get on two classic routes. Appalachian Spring is a beautiful hanging face up streaked, sculpted sandstone painted orange and black. Orange Juice, the other climb, follows a perfect line of pockets up an otherwise blank panel on a tall, proud wall. While we were working, along with several others, on these two climbs, we ran into our friends from from Maine; Pete and Jen. I've been absolutely loving hanging out with those two. I am startled at the depth of Pete's accent, and the speed at which it can send me into convulsive laughter.
Seth had been on Orange Juice previously on his climbing trip, and had the moves locked into an ironclad beta sequence. He encouraged me to try to flash it, and I figured I'd give it a shot. When I got to each crux section, he'd tell me how he'd done it and then belayed me as I climbed through each set of pockets and into the next rest. He had it on absolute lock down, and the vibe at the cliff was totally positive...Josh and Pete were hooting it up, Jen and another one of her friends were kicking back in the sun, and I had the moment of pure mental flow state. I didn't think about anything except the moves directly in front of me, and without much stress or hubbub, I was clipping the chains. That, Voyeurs, is exactly why I'm on this trip, and is exactly the reason I do this.
Abafuckinluba.
Back here at The Highlander cabin, backdrop to last year's RRG adventure, and psyched at the comfort. This place is a bit nicer than the cabin where we'd spent each evening of the last week. In the end, the cabin doesn't make or break the trip, but having slightly nicer accommodations makes a subtle difference. For now, it's just Brian (arrived yesterday), Josh, and his brother Seth. Nick and Robin should come down tomorrow after they took a day or so off and headed back to Ohio. That will tighten up the personal diffusion of space, but they add a sense of humor and smart conversation that is great.
These last couple of days have been unparalleled. The weather had taken a bit of a dive at the end of last week, but the weekend was cold, sunny and crisp...perfect for trusting the friction, believing in the eternal lightness of a sport wanker's soul, and really going for it. As an aside, I hear my buddy Andrew did his long standing project Living in Fear out in Rifle. Congrats! I'm assuming he had good fall temps out there in western CO, as well. It does feel so damn good to send...
With the posse here in KY, we've been like locusts on the prowl. We went out to The Sanctuary today, and all spread out to see the highest regarded climbs. Brian nearly onsighted Prometheus Unbound, doing it second try. I had two really quality burns on Jesus Wept, one hanging from the second draw on that second go. Josh and Seth both worked on the powerful and bouldery Triple Sec. The excitement that was in the air was really contagious. It was so easy to look out at the leaves falling off the trees, backlit by a fading sun, and think about how wonderful an experience it was. I'm so damn lucky. I get to do what I really like to do, a lot. I've got a big group of supportive people, have been blessed with youth and health and passion. As my buddy Rob has said, "we're gonna be shoveling a lot of shit in the next lifetime to make up for this one."
Yesterday was just as good. The Finkelstein's and I headed out to Funk Rock to get on two classic routes. Appalachian Spring is a beautiful hanging face up streaked, sculpted sandstone painted orange and black. Orange Juice, the other climb, follows a perfect line of pockets up an otherwise blank panel on a tall, proud wall. While we were working, along with several others, on these two climbs, we ran into our friends from from Maine; Pete and Jen. I've been absolutely loving hanging out with those two. I am startled at the depth of Pete's accent, and the speed at which it can send me into convulsive laughter.
Seth had been on Orange Juice previously on his climbing trip, and had the moves locked into an ironclad beta sequence. He encouraged me to try to flash it, and I figured I'd give it a shot. When I got to each crux section, he'd tell me how he'd done it and then belayed me as I climbed through each set of pockets and into the next rest. He had it on absolute lock down, and the vibe at the cliff was totally positive...Josh and Pete were hooting it up, Jen and another one of her friends were kicking back in the sun, and I had the moment of pure mental flow state. I didn't think about anything except the moves directly in front of me, and without much stress or hubbub, I was clipping the chains. That, Voyeurs, is exactly why I'm on this trip, and is exactly the reason I do this.
Abafuckinluba.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Resting Today
I'm up in Lexington, waiting out the rain. The weather had been perfect up until now, but we seem to be in for a few days of relative shittyness. Oh well, I need the rest.
Josh and I went to a crag called Purgatory yesterday, and we got on what might be one of the greatest pitches of rock climbing ever sculpted from stone. Starting in one crack system, you climb up for only 15 feet or so, then traverse on small pockets up towards a striking, steep, and intimidating arete. With total body tension, you climb the prow to ever more difficult moves, and finally get a chance to breathe...when you clip the anchors from the only big hold on the route.
AMAZING.
Table is still closed because of the fire, but the rain today should help.
Otherwise, it's more of the same...climbing until I can barely move, shuffling back to the cabin for a massive feed preparation, and then passing out for 10 hours of sleep. This is nearly a perfect life....just missing the good company of those left in CO.
Hope everyone is well!
Josh and I went to a crag called Purgatory yesterday, and we got on what might be one of the greatest pitches of rock climbing ever sculpted from stone. Starting in one crack system, you climb up for only 15 feet or so, then traverse on small pockets up towards a striking, steep, and intimidating arete. With total body tension, you climb the prow to ever more difficult moves, and finally get a chance to breathe...when you clip the anchors from the only big hold on the route.
AMAZING.
Table is still closed because of the fire, but the rain today should help.
Otherwise, it's more of the same...climbing until I can barely move, shuffling back to the cabin for a massive feed preparation, and then passing out for 10 hours of sleep. This is nearly a perfect life....just missing the good company of those left in CO.
Hope everyone is well!
Saturday, October 30, 2010
A week in
Good God, Kentucky is amazing right now.
The weather is holding really well, and things are just perfect out there. Well, almost perfect. I am unfortunately stymied at the moment when it comes to getting back on Table of Colors. In a nearly comical similarity to what's going on back home in Colorado, a fire has shut down the road into, and also the trail that serves, Left Flank, the area that hosts the climb I really want to do on this trip.
I'm holding out hope that after a few more days, the access will be opened again, and I'll get back there. Since I have been held back from getting right back on the familiar project, I've been climbing down at the Motherlode a bunch, and I also had a really good day up at The Solarium. The grades there are mostly pretty soft (though I didn't try Mirage...a crimpfest 12c) so I managed to easily onsight a 12b called Super Best Friends. I also was able to onsight another 12a, and thought I'm less concerned with the fact that I'm doing those routes, I am very happy with how things feel right now in comparison to how my fitness was going at this point in the trip last year.
Last fall, it felt like it took me a couple of weeks to get into the position where I could really recover on those archetypal finger buckets that make up a large portion of 5.12 here. I think a big part of it is the "4 wheel drive" mentality I've been trying to repeat in my head like some kind of mantra. I've been consciously taking the weight into my legs as best I can, and pulling with my hamstrings....keeping my feel high and moving them before my hands. That strategy is paying off. It feels amazing to be on terrain that is very steep, and know that I'm learning how to make it feel slightly less so.
I nearly sent 8 Ball today, a classic and hard 12d, coming really close after only 3 tries on the route. There is a dihedral through most of the crux, and I've been busting out the Rifle inspired knee bars to occasionally take some pressure off my hands. I know that some of the old school, hillbilly locals pout when they see that kind of intelligent beta employed, but what do I care? I wanna send, and I don't have time to waste.
Other than the great climbing, I'm picking up Josh this weekend, and am really happy to have a familiar face arriving.
This last week had me finding an easy pattern. I'd get up, make breakfast in my chilly van, get packed up, wrangle on the cell phone hoping to get a partner out of the dozen or so people I know that are down here, and after I found one, I'd head out and meet them at the cliff. Don't get me wrong, I had a fantastic week with people I really like, but I'm just not as close to the people I was climbing with as I am, say, to Josh or Brian, who arrives next week. I've been so lucky to cultivate these great friendships with people back in Colorado, and climbing is even better when you're with people sharing a deeper connection than just grabbing rocks.
The van has been a CHAMP, though, and I've been so happy to have that as a traveling home. I really want to get the kitchen built this winter, and feel lucky that I've been able to spend some time in it before that "remodel." It's so much easier to build what you actually want if you've been in there a few nights and had the chance to say, "this would be really nice if it were just so..."
So now I've got a long list of stuff to do here in Louisville, and as always, I'm so lucky to have the Parrish family extending their enormous hospitality. Off to get a little work done, and then head back to the gorge. Missin' my Voyeurs back in CO...
The weather is holding really well, and things are just perfect out there. Well, almost perfect. I am unfortunately stymied at the moment when it comes to getting back on Table of Colors. In a nearly comical similarity to what's going on back home in Colorado, a fire has shut down the road into, and also the trail that serves, Left Flank, the area that hosts the climb I really want to do on this trip.
I'm holding out hope that after a few more days, the access will be opened again, and I'll get back there. Since I have been held back from getting right back on the familiar project, I've been climbing down at the Motherlode a bunch, and I also had a really good day up at The Solarium. The grades there are mostly pretty soft (though I didn't try Mirage...a crimpfest 12c) so I managed to easily onsight a 12b called Super Best Friends. I also was able to onsight another 12a, and thought I'm less concerned with the fact that I'm doing those routes, I am very happy with how things feel right now in comparison to how my fitness was going at this point in the trip last year.
Last fall, it felt like it took me a couple of weeks to get into the position where I could really recover on those archetypal finger buckets that make up a large portion of 5.12 here. I think a big part of it is the "4 wheel drive" mentality I've been trying to repeat in my head like some kind of mantra. I've been consciously taking the weight into my legs as best I can, and pulling with my hamstrings....keeping my feel high and moving them before my hands. That strategy is paying off. It feels amazing to be on terrain that is very steep, and know that I'm learning how to make it feel slightly less so.
I nearly sent 8 Ball today, a classic and hard 12d, coming really close after only 3 tries on the route. There is a dihedral through most of the crux, and I've been busting out the Rifle inspired knee bars to occasionally take some pressure off my hands. I know that some of the old school, hillbilly locals pout when they see that kind of intelligent beta employed, but what do I care? I wanna send, and I don't have time to waste.
Other than the great climbing, I'm picking up Josh this weekend, and am really happy to have a familiar face arriving.
This last week had me finding an easy pattern. I'd get up, make breakfast in my chilly van, get packed up, wrangle on the cell phone hoping to get a partner out of the dozen or so people I know that are down here, and after I found one, I'd head out and meet them at the cliff. Don't get me wrong, I had a fantastic week with people I really like, but I'm just not as close to the people I was climbing with as I am, say, to Josh or Brian, who arrives next week. I've been so lucky to cultivate these great friendships with people back in Colorado, and climbing is even better when you're with people sharing a deeper connection than just grabbing rocks.
The van has been a CHAMP, though, and I've been so happy to have that as a traveling home. I really want to get the kitchen built this winter, and feel lucky that I've been able to spend some time in it before that "remodel." It's so much easier to build what you actually want if you've been in there a few nights and had the chance to say, "this would be really nice if it were just so..."
So now I've got a long list of stuff to do here in Louisville, and as always, I'm so lucky to have the Parrish family extending their enormous hospitality. Off to get a little work done, and then head back to the gorge. Missin' my Voyeurs back in CO...
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Red Report
Kentucky is, odd to say, kind of lonesome right now. I've misjudged the arrival time of my friends from Salt Lake (they get in at this end of THIS week, not last) and, as such, have had to scramble a little. The good news is that I was able to climb at The Dark Side with Erin and her boyfriend Kennan, who used to live in Boulder and have since moved to Stanton, KY. Then I got a half day at The Motherlode with my buddy Thomas, a medical student up in Lexington.
The climbing partners haven't been the problem. The nights hanging in the van, reading or talking on the phone, but either way, wishing my buddies were out here, have been sort of long. But the good news is that it looks like the SLC crew arrives tomorrow, and Josh is out this weekend.
The van is working really well. I've realized some small details that might make things way easier. A cargo net here, a shelf there. But basically, I'm camped in total comfort. I might make a trip to Wal-Mart to see about a net, but let's be honest...I may stay for the people watching.
As for projects, I haven't been able to get up to try Table of Colors again, but I did get on a couple of other harder climbs that should keep me intrigued. It looks like I have really good weather lined up, so after my rest day today, it looks like I'll get to totally enjoy the fall here.
The climbing partners haven't been the problem. The nights hanging in the van, reading or talking on the phone, but either way, wishing my buddies were out here, have been sort of long. But the good news is that it looks like the SLC crew arrives tomorrow, and Josh is out this weekend.
The van is working really well. I've realized some small details that might make things way easier. A cargo net here, a shelf there. But basically, I'm camped in total comfort. I might make a trip to Wal-Mart to see about a net, but let's be honest...I may stay for the people watching.
As for projects, I haven't been able to get up to try Table of Colors again, but I did get on a couple of other harder climbs that should keep me intrigued. It looks like I have really good weather lined up, so after my rest day today, it looks like I'll get to totally enjoy the fall here.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
A Return to Abaluba, A Return to The Red
It’ s been a long time since I’ve posted. When I left off, I was planning to head to
Burning Man, and figured I’ d have a report on par with my essay from The Salathe wall.
Instead of heading out to Black Rock City in Nevada, home of debauchery and cradle to
tales of transcendent chemical/sexual/musical/artistic visions, I went to Minnesota. Quite
the trade., I had to backtrack on the idea of partying my brains out because the chance
to buy a ridiculously cool Dodge Sprinter van fell into my lap. I know the term "ridiculously cool" isn't typically associated with Dodge and Sprinter, but after Josh and I spent three weeks in California in his recycled USPS Mail Van, I had to follow suit with a purchase of my own.
Not to disparage his fine Ford find, but my van, Capt. Walter (Wally) C. Lewis, US Navy (Ret.), or Wally for short, allows for even finer dirtbag fabulous road trips. The extended height allows for me to stand in the cabin of the turbo diesel, 26 MPG beast, and the interior is so designed as to allow for maximum relaxation/cooking area/sleeping quarters/boombox. I, loyal voyeurs, am very excited with the purchase. I'm sure my lovely girlfriend Julia would assure you likewise. She's been quite the trooper, allowing me to talk about beadboard paneling, self tapping screws, swivel seats and bio diesel without even a roll of her eyes.
Dan, the friend I was supposed to meet in Nevada, still maintains that the Burning Man experience was one of legend. He was patient enough to understand my leaving him high and dry in the desert. I'm sad to have missed out on that trip with him, sure...but I'm psyched he's still taking my phone calls.
Behind the wheel of Wally, I am headed out on a climbing trip somewhat similar to the one I took last fall, with a few exceptions. Instead of rolling out for three weeks, this trip is closer to five. Josh, my partner from Yosemite, and Brian, my roommate, are both planning to come out from Colorado at various points in order to climb with for a while. I’ m meeting up with about
a half dozen other Colorado climbers, as well. That part is going to be amazing. The
ones that can’ t make it, especially Julia, have me missing home, but I’ m
so lucky to have the chance to chase the autumn here in the Southeast, climbing on amazing overhanging sandstone, and doing battle once more with projects like Table. I have to be out here.
Like last year, I stopped at the farm for a couple of days before arriving in Kentucky. It’ s
been great to spend some time in central Missouri, and I got to work on the
new garage that’ s going to house mowers, machines, and tools. The major difference here on the Arth family estate is that my grandmother is battling lung cancer, and I wonder how many more times I’ m going to be able to stop by while she’ s still here. She’ s looking pretty spry, so I’ m assuming that this Thanksgiving is a very safe bet. Past the end of the year, though, and I’ m not so sure.
Morbid thoughts aside, I’ m really excited to head towards Kentucky. I have a project
from last year that I’d LOVE to finish up. I tried Table of Colors enough times to leave
my hands raw and bloodied, but couldn’t ever link the moves together into a successful
effort. I’m hoping that I’ m a year stronger, a year smarter, and a year hungrier. If none
of those happen to hold, at least I’ve got the moves, all 28 of the hardest for me, written
down in a journal from 2009. There’ s got to be some significant advantage in having
been there before.
*
*
Other than this trip and the new wheels, I’ve spent the summer spending lots of good days with Julia, working a little harder on my job, watching Arrested Development on DVD,
fishing a little more, and trying to be a bit more present in my day-to-day existence.
I’ d like to blame/credit that mentality with the lack of blog posting, but in truth, it may
have been sloth. Whatever the reason, I’ m greeting the autumn with a renewed take on
writing. Hopefully, the content will be a touch better, and there won’ t be such gaps in
between posts.
Burning Man, and figured I’ d have a report on par with my essay from The Salathe wall.
Instead of heading out to Black Rock City in Nevada, home of debauchery and cradle to
tales of transcendent chemical/sexual/musical/artistic visions, I went to Minnesota. Quite
the trade., I had to backtrack on the idea of partying my brains out because the chance
to buy a ridiculously cool Dodge Sprinter van fell into my lap. I know the term "ridiculously cool" isn't typically associated with Dodge and Sprinter, but after Josh and I spent three weeks in California in his recycled USPS Mail Van, I had to follow suit with a purchase of my own.
Not to disparage his fine Ford find, but my van, Capt. Walter (Wally) C. Lewis, US Navy (Ret.), or Wally for short, allows for even finer dirtbag fabulous road trips. The extended height allows for me to stand in the cabin of the turbo diesel, 26 MPG beast, and the interior is so designed as to allow for maximum relaxation/cooking area/sleeping quarters/boombox. I, loyal voyeurs, am very excited with the purchase. I'm sure my lovely girlfriend Julia would assure you likewise. She's been quite the trooper, allowing me to talk about beadboard paneling, self tapping screws, swivel seats and bio diesel without even a roll of her eyes.
Dan, the friend I was supposed to meet in Nevada, still maintains that the Burning Man experience was one of legend. He was patient enough to understand my leaving him high and dry in the desert. I'm sad to have missed out on that trip with him, sure...but I'm psyched he's still taking my phone calls.
Behind the wheel of Wally, I am headed out on a climbing trip somewhat similar to the one I took last fall, with a few exceptions. Instead of rolling out for three weeks, this trip is closer to five. Josh, my partner from Yosemite, and Brian, my roommate, are both planning to come out from Colorado at various points in order to climb with for a while. I’ m meeting up with about
a half dozen other Colorado climbers, as well. That part is going to be amazing. The
ones that can’ t make it, especially Julia, have me missing home, but I’ m
so lucky to have the chance to chase the autumn here in the Southeast, climbing on amazing overhanging sandstone, and doing battle once more with projects like Table. I have to be out here.
Like last year, I stopped at the farm for a couple of days before arriving in Kentucky. It’ s
been great to spend some time in central Missouri, and I got to work on the
new garage that’ s going to house mowers, machines, and tools. The major difference here on the Arth family estate is that my grandmother is battling lung cancer, and I wonder how many more times I’ m going to be able to stop by while she’ s still here. She’ s looking pretty spry, so I’ m assuming that this Thanksgiving is a very safe bet. Past the end of the year, though, and I’ m not so sure.
Morbid thoughts aside, I’ m really excited to head towards Kentucky. I have a project
from last year that I’d LOVE to finish up. I tried Table of Colors enough times to leave
my hands raw and bloodied, but couldn’t ever link the moves together into a successful
effort. I’m hoping that I’ m a year stronger, a year smarter, and a year hungrier. If none
of those happen to hold, at least I’ve got the moves, all 28 of the hardest for me, written
down in a journal from 2009. There’ s got to be some significant advantage in having
been there before.
*
*
Other than this trip and the new wheels, I’ve spent the summer spending lots of good days with Julia, working a little harder on my job, watching Arrested Development on DVD,
fishing a little more, and trying to be a bit more present in my day-to-day existence.
I’ d like to blame/credit that mentality with the lack of blog posting, but in truth, it may
have been sloth. Whatever the reason, I’ m greeting the autumn with a renewed take on
writing. Hopefully, the content will be a touch better, and there won’ t be such gaps in
between posts.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Maple Canyon
I'm out in the middle of Utah with my buddy Dan as we search out Maple Canyon's finest steep, cobbled sport climbs. The drive from Boulder has kept me wary of this place. 8 hours is a pretty formidable commute, especially since you have to pass right by Rifle to get here. I always seem to get distracted, and hadn't made it to climb before.
I have, though, been to this valley on a previous work trip. I didn't even know Maple existed when I passed through back in 2004, so instead of getting to sample the towering cobbled walls with (mostly) fluffy grades on the trade routes of The Minimum Wall, I headed to Joe's Valley instead. Now that I'm back, though, it does look pretty familiar.
There's the rows upon rows of turkey farms, stinking up the air and giving me pause when I think about industrial meat manufacturing. Snow College in Ephraim is the scholastic powerhouse I remember, as I'd been there with Landman extraordinaire Bill Untiedt in his quest for a Snow College Badger's Basketball T-shirt in between bouts of teaching me how to acquire oil and gas leases from skittish Mormon ranchers.
Upon closer, second inspection, I can say the best place about this Sanpete Valley is the climbing. Dan and I have been able to get on some unfamiliar routes, a rarity for us project minded men. Normally, we get so routine with the climbs we pick at Rifle, and climbing becomes an exercise in whittling down a climb from impossible to "wired" over the course of numerous attempts. Here, we're onsighting to our hearts content, and marveling at the weird rock. Cobbles, anywhere from golf ball-sized to watermelon replicas, are glued in place by an odd sandstone matrix. Many of the holds on routes 5.12 or easier are incut and friendly on the skin, with the name of the game being endurance over pure power.
We've got a few more days of climbing before we head back to Colorado. Then, I'll focus on working and (hopefully) doing the Diamond up on Long's, and after a week of relaxing in the familiar, head to Burning Man.
I'll try to write about my pre-trip excitement and expectations, and then take a ton of pics while I am out in Nevada. I'm hoping to get something similar to the Salathe post in terms of content and scope, but have a little time until then. For now, it's rock climbing and enjoying the summer breeze out in Utah.
I have, though, been to this valley on a previous work trip. I didn't even know Maple existed when I passed through back in 2004, so instead of getting to sample the towering cobbled walls with (mostly) fluffy grades on the trade routes of The Minimum Wall, I headed to Joe's Valley instead. Now that I'm back, though, it does look pretty familiar.
There's the rows upon rows of turkey farms, stinking up the air and giving me pause when I think about industrial meat manufacturing. Snow College in Ephraim is the scholastic powerhouse I remember, as I'd been there with Landman extraordinaire Bill Untiedt in his quest for a Snow College Badger's Basketball T-shirt in between bouts of teaching me how to acquire oil and gas leases from skittish Mormon ranchers.
Upon closer, second inspection, I can say the best place about this Sanpete Valley is the climbing. Dan and I have been able to get on some unfamiliar routes, a rarity for us project minded men. Normally, we get so routine with the climbs we pick at Rifle, and climbing becomes an exercise in whittling down a climb from impossible to "wired" over the course of numerous attempts. Here, we're onsighting to our hearts content, and marveling at the weird rock. Cobbles, anywhere from golf ball-sized to watermelon replicas, are glued in place by an odd sandstone matrix. Many of the holds on routes 5.12 or easier are incut and friendly on the skin, with the name of the game being endurance over pure power.
We've got a few more days of climbing before we head back to Colorado. Then, I'll focus on working and (hopefully) doing the Diamond up on Long's, and after a week of relaxing in the familiar, head to Burning Man.
I'll try to write about my pre-trip excitement and expectations, and then take a ton of pics while I am out in Nevada. I'm hoping to get something similar to the Salathe post in terms of content and scope, but have a little time until then. For now, it's rock climbing and enjoying the summer breeze out in Utah.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Alternative Title
What we could call this is a TD/HBI #5. Instead, it's merely a field trip.
To Wal-Mart.
I'm staying in Rifle at the moment. Work has called me back to the place I love, the place I keep secret from work so I'll not confuse those two idealized worlds of "nose-to-the-grindstone" and "unshackled joy". For some reason, the desire for such intense separation drives me into a job I find interesting, though by odd proxy, a sad reminder of where humanity currently resides. We dig up pretty things out of the ground and, though admittedly adroit practice, pump out playtoys and cheap plastic crap by the oceanload. Don't get me wrong, I love my playtoys, too. But I can't help but shake my head at the mere mathematical inevitability that my love, times 7 billion, equals too much garbage, smoke and oily pelicans.
Wal-Mart becomes the unwavering Target for my disdain for other people's consumerism. At a certain level, it becomes intuitive to do the math described above. I hardly even notice the pun, my sneer turned towards the bastion of capitalism based in Arkansas, USA. That math can't have sunk in too deeply.
Walking inside of that place, the rows upon rows of shiny junk glint in the fluorescent light reflecting down from stark white ceilings. I flinched at a clamor, thinking there was a fight in an adjacent aisle. "Take cover! These roughnecks spend all day on a well losing fingers and brain cells. I know they're mean and strong from slinging those drill bits all day, and God knows they'd beat me to burger."
Around the corner, a wall of televisions show, with perfect synchronization, a familiar movie. Thank god there wasn't a gang war. It was only Percy Jackson, son of Poseidon, if memory serves. This character is in a movie my young cousin tried, in vain, to convince me to watch while I was recently at the farm.
I avoided the television shrine, and moved on to lighting. I was hoping to find bike illumination for my two wheeled transport I'll ride at Burning Man. I want to be beaming Lumens while I ride through the playa, sufficiently so that no matter the amount of chemicals pulsing through someone's brain, they'll avoid smashing into me. Additionally, I'm bringing a Lacrosse helmet, just in case.
The lights were no where near the Low, Low Prices I been assured would greet my arrival. In fact, I could buy them for $10 anywhere. No need for that then...and so I started to roam.
In camping, I saw Mountain House dried backpacking food. See? We all like to eat shitty food out of a foil pouch when we're out sleeping with the bears. At REI, they sell Kathmandu Curry and Spicy Pad Thai. In Rifle, the consumer either prefers the Beef Stew or BBQ Chicken, or are assumed to be too stupid to track down that Himalayan city, let alone appreciate the delicate spices and flavorings. As such, they're presented with provincial fare reminiscent of Midwestern stereotypes.
It was someone's conscious decision to ship those particular flavors to those particular stores.
In Tools, I saw gloves that looked imbued with dexterity, a feature I'm sure I'd love while belaying friends at the crag. A painting mask would be great for any dust storms in Black Rock City, NV. Kitchen offered a cutting board and knife, two things I could put in my kitchen box for my next camping adventure. Never mind that I already have two of each.
Jesus! I can see how someone can walk out of there spending far too much loot on superfluous stuff that doesn't make their life much better.
I had to get out of there. I tried to bolt for the door, but couldn't find my way to the exits. Passing men and women, many my age, toting their several young children, towards their intended aisle, I shifted my gaze until it finally met a way out. My eyes avoided contact with any other articles which might tickle my need's imagination. All this stuff was putting up a mighty fight to separate me from the contents in my wallet, so I blasted, Millennium Falcon style, out of the front door and into the perfect summer air buzzing with glow bugs.
My hotel was just down the frontage road, not 300 yards. The wide eyed disbelief shown me by an incredulous, rusty cowboy as he drove past in his pickup told me that I was the first white to ever walk such a distance within the incorporated city limits. As I bounced back towards the corporate confines, I strolled next to a creek of sorts. In reality, the running water was more of a ditch for the irrigation runoff carrying cattle effluent towards the Rio Colorado and our fine brown friends downstream. Left unattended, however, and ferns were stretching upwards, nearly knee high. The smell was mesmerizing; spent diesel fuel mixed with wet shit over field greens.
Just before I hopped across the three lanes of traffic, I scouted the Roan Plateau and mourned its inevitably demise. Someday, that plateau will just be a hole in the ground. Fortunately, there will be plenty of development where it once stood.
To Wal-Mart.
I'm staying in Rifle at the moment. Work has called me back to the place I love, the place I keep secret from work so I'll not confuse those two idealized worlds of "nose-to-the-grindstone" and "unshackled joy". For some reason, the desire for such intense separation drives me into a job I find interesting, though by odd proxy, a sad reminder of where humanity currently resides. We dig up pretty things out of the ground and, though admittedly adroit practice, pump out playtoys and cheap plastic crap by the oceanload. Don't get me wrong, I love my playtoys, too. But I can't help but shake my head at the mere mathematical inevitability that my love, times 7 billion, equals too much garbage, smoke and oily pelicans.
Wal-Mart becomes the unwavering Target for my disdain for other people's consumerism. At a certain level, it becomes intuitive to do the math described above. I hardly even notice the pun, my sneer turned towards the bastion of capitalism based in Arkansas, USA. That math can't have sunk in too deeply.
Walking inside of that place, the rows upon rows of shiny junk glint in the fluorescent light reflecting down from stark white ceilings. I flinched at a clamor, thinking there was a fight in an adjacent aisle. "Take cover! These roughnecks spend all day on a well losing fingers and brain cells. I know they're mean and strong from slinging those drill bits all day, and God knows they'd beat me to burger."
Around the corner, a wall of televisions show, with perfect synchronization, a familiar movie. Thank god there wasn't a gang war. It was only Percy Jackson, son of Poseidon, if memory serves. This character is in a movie my young cousin tried, in vain, to convince me to watch while I was recently at the farm.
I avoided the television shrine, and moved on to lighting. I was hoping to find bike illumination for my two wheeled transport I'll ride at Burning Man. I want to be beaming Lumens while I ride through the playa, sufficiently so that no matter the amount of chemicals pulsing through someone's brain, they'll avoid smashing into me. Additionally, I'm bringing a Lacrosse helmet, just in case.
The lights were no where near the Low, Low Prices I been assured would greet my arrival. In fact, I could buy them for $10 anywhere. No need for that then...and so I started to roam.
In camping, I saw Mountain House dried backpacking food. See? We all like to eat shitty food out of a foil pouch when we're out sleeping with the bears. At REI, they sell Kathmandu Curry and Spicy Pad Thai. In Rifle, the consumer either prefers the Beef Stew or BBQ Chicken, or are assumed to be too stupid to track down that Himalayan city, let alone appreciate the delicate spices and flavorings. As such, they're presented with provincial fare reminiscent of Midwestern stereotypes.
It was someone's conscious decision to ship those particular flavors to those particular stores.
In Tools, I saw gloves that looked imbued with dexterity, a feature I'm sure I'd love while belaying friends at the crag. A painting mask would be great for any dust storms in Black Rock City, NV. Kitchen offered a cutting board and knife, two things I could put in my kitchen box for my next camping adventure. Never mind that I already have two of each.
Jesus! I can see how someone can walk out of there spending far too much loot on superfluous stuff that doesn't make their life much better.
I had to get out of there. I tried to bolt for the door, but couldn't find my way to the exits. Passing men and women, many my age, toting their several young children, towards their intended aisle, I shifted my gaze until it finally met a way out. My eyes avoided contact with any other articles which might tickle my need's imagination. All this stuff was putting up a mighty fight to separate me from the contents in my wallet, so I blasted, Millennium Falcon style, out of the front door and into the perfect summer air buzzing with glow bugs.
My hotel was just down the frontage road, not 300 yards. The wide eyed disbelief shown me by an incredulous, rusty cowboy as he drove past in his pickup told me that I was the first white to ever walk such a distance within the incorporated city limits. As I bounced back towards the corporate confines, I strolled next to a creek of sorts. In reality, the running water was more of a ditch for the irrigation runoff carrying cattle effluent towards the Rio Colorado and our fine brown friends downstream. Left unattended, however, and ferns were stretching upwards, nearly knee high. The smell was mesmerizing; spent diesel fuel mixed with wet shit over field greens.
Just before I hopped across the three lanes of traffic, I scouted the Roan Plateau and mourned its inevitably demise. Someday, that plateau will just be a hole in the ground. Fortunately, there will be plenty of development where it once stood.
Monday, July 26, 2010
TD/HBI 4
I'm back from the little break. Sorry, but I've needed some time for blog silence. Now, though, I've realized that I need to post an idea.
Here's the thing: I turn 30 next year. That thought isn't inherently terrifying, but as I've just spent the last weekend with my Grandparents, I'm somewhat more motivated to live aggressively, to try to continue to engage in experiences that will leave indelible memories. Grandma is, sadly, getting worse for wear and likely doesn't have much time left. My Grandfather is in fine health for a man in his late 70's, but his proximity to visible demise is impossible to ignore, and this has a saturating effect on my perception of Grandpa Don.
These weekends we've taken at the farm have served a multitude of purpose, though at the top of my list is a chance to try to support Grandpa. Superficially silly, I go to cut the grass. There are something like 70 acres of lawn in central Missouri that Don Arth fights, tooth and nail, for each upward inch. Even with a riding lawnmower possessing a wide cutting deck, this takes hours. I know that part of my Grandfather needs consistent chores to stay busy, likely it's actually good for his health. At the minimum, a general bookmark. Also, though, I know that sitting for a day in a riding lawnmower, in the blazing July sun, gets lame. I can help him for a few hours, and even if it's largely symbolic, I want him to see me covered in grass clippings and sweat.
I also go out for my mom, who, in spite of a very reasoned understanding of the physics and inevitability of mortality, is still watching her mother die. Four plane flights, two rental cars, and several trips to the grocery store later, and she is at the farm with her own children. We're rarely in the same place for an entire weekend, and this gives us at least the chance to maintain a connection.
During my entire youth, the farm came to symbolize the connection with my maternal family. The cog of this wheel was my Grandfather, and to a lesser extent my Grandmother, so it is in their fading that new core relationships take on an added importance. My cousin Michael was there. He's a young man who is well spoken, interesting, and charming. My sisters were out there. I had a chance to sit and talk with Reilly, and enjoy a cool Gin & Tonic with Megan. These interactions don't necessarily make or guarantee some future connection, but they greatly facilitate its possible existence.
And it's through that lens of mortality that I've taken a keener interest in my coming birthday. It's not scientifically or physically that important, but 30 is a nice round number that has some cultural significance. Much more adult, much more advanced, that much greater through the ratio of time remaining.
And so I don't want to waste that time.
* * * *
While I was in Yosemite with Josh, he and I batted about the idea of a bike trip through Northeastern Spain. We could visit incredible climbing areas and have an amazing, irreplaceable cultural experience in addition. The bike would allow for slow paced travel. It would take the rider to small villages, and keep the adventure going. Much of the accommodation could be done on the cheap, and the time, if the rider wills its sacrifice, could stretch much longer than a "lavish" two weeks. For me, the idea took on added allure because of my desire to return to the country where I studied abroad, and reintegrate with a language I'm worried is slipping away. Josh was more enchanted with Southern France, where's he'd be linguistically more familiar.
The style of seeing Spain is a chance to reignite a fire fueled by adventure and unknown, and also a springboard into a new time and stage in my life. I've said for a while that I don't necessarily want to become dependent on my job for identity, and that a more diverse career is attractive. I'd like to think that I can save, between now and next July or August, sufficient money to take a three-six month trip to Europe. Then, I can set sail and see where I end up. I would like to diligently write the story, and turn the tale into more than just one blog posting.
The Salathe blogpost was the best I'd written on Abaluba, largely because there was, by far, the greatest wealth of material from which to draw. Burning Man is at the end of August, and I expect that will provide another rich group of stories. But to me, the prospect of combining a bike, Spain, and a rock climbing adventure is too beautiful and inspirational.
The seed has been planted. Perhaps I'll find sufficient sun and rain to let this grow. Let's hope.
Here's the thing: I turn 30 next year. That thought isn't inherently terrifying, but as I've just spent the last weekend with my Grandparents, I'm somewhat more motivated to live aggressively, to try to continue to engage in experiences that will leave indelible memories. Grandma is, sadly, getting worse for wear and likely doesn't have much time left. My Grandfather is in fine health for a man in his late 70's, but his proximity to visible demise is impossible to ignore, and this has a saturating effect on my perception of Grandpa Don.
These weekends we've taken at the farm have served a multitude of purpose, though at the top of my list is a chance to try to support Grandpa. Superficially silly, I go to cut the grass. There are something like 70 acres of lawn in central Missouri that Don Arth fights, tooth and nail, for each upward inch. Even with a riding lawnmower possessing a wide cutting deck, this takes hours. I know that part of my Grandfather needs consistent chores to stay busy, likely it's actually good for his health. At the minimum, a general bookmark. Also, though, I know that sitting for a day in a riding lawnmower, in the blazing July sun, gets lame. I can help him for a few hours, and even if it's largely symbolic, I want him to see me covered in grass clippings and sweat.
I also go out for my mom, who, in spite of a very reasoned understanding of the physics and inevitability of mortality, is still watching her mother die. Four plane flights, two rental cars, and several trips to the grocery store later, and she is at the farm with her own children. We're rarely in the same place for an entire weekend, and this gives us at least the chance to maintain a connection.
During my entire youth, the farm came to symbolize the connection with my maternal family. The cog of this wheel was my Grandfather, and to a lesser extent my Grandmother, so it is in their fading that new core relationships take on an added importance. My cousin Michael was there. He's a young man who is well spoken, interesting, and charming. My sisters were out there. I had a chance to sit and talk with Reilly, and enjoy a cool Gin & Tonic with Megan. These interactions don't necessarily make or guarantee some future connection, but they greatly facilitate its possible existence.
And it's through that lens of mortality that I've taken a keener interest in my coming birthday. It's not scientifically or physically that important, but 30 is a nice round number that has some cultural significance. Much more adult, much more advanced, that much greater through the ratio of time remaining.
And so I don't want to waste that time.
* * * *
While I was in Yosemite with Josh, he and I batted about the idea of a bike trip through Northeastern Spain. We could visit incredible climbing areas and have an amazing, irreplaceable cultural experience in addition. The bike would allow for slow paced travel. It would take the rider to small villages, and keep the adventure going. Much of the accommodation could be done on the cheap, and the time, if the rider wills its sacrifice, could stretch much longer than a "lavish" two weeks. For me, the idea took on added allure because of my desire to return to the country where I studied abroad, and reintegrate with a language I'm worried is slipping away. Josh was more enchanted with Southern France, where's he'd be linguistically more familiar.
The style of seeing Spain is a chance to reignite a fire fueled by adventure and unknown, and also a springboard into a new time and stage in my life. I've said for a while that I don't necessarily want to become dependent on my job for identity, and that a more diverse career is attractive. I'd like to think that I can save, between now and next July or August, sufficient money to take a three-six month trip to Europe. Then, I can set sail and see where I end up. I would like to diligently write the story, and turn the tale into more than just one blog posting.
The Salathe blogpost was the best I'd written on Abaluba, largely because there was, by far, the greatest wealth of material from which to draw. Burning Man is at the end of August, and I expect that will provide another rich group of stories. But to me, the prospect of combining a bike, Spain, and a rock climbing adventure is too beautiful and inspirational.
The seed has been planted. Perhaps I'll find sufficient sun and rain to let this grow. Let's hope.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Viva España
Spain won the World Cup today in a game that nearly gave me a heart attack. It was a bit tough for me to cheer for so many Barcelona players wearing the Castillian crest on their shirts, but thankfully Iker Casillas, Real Madrid's goal keeper, saved the game with two incredible stops before Andres Iniesta rocked home a goal deep in extra time.
I hadn't washed my navy blue Spain jersey since the team beat Portugal in the round of 16. I can finally clean that poor shirt, and might be on the prowl for another piece of team wear. Specifically, I'm thinking about one that has the world champion star over the national team embroidery. Might have to go with a red one.
Watching the game at a bar in Boulder, I started thinking about the year I spent over in Madrid. The memory of all the close friends I made in that wonderful city flooded back, and as I raised my hands in celebration of the winning goal, I was right back in La Pedriza with Matt, Tom, and Neil.
Seeing Spanish fans packed into the Plaza de Colon for the game, screaming their hopes at the enormous television screens set up for public viewing, brought me back. The streets of Moncloa rang with my footsteps as I paraded between bars with Vino and Nicole. Late nights on The Metro, our apartment above the Hotel Melia, and Pilar's place above Blended.
None of that is going to mean much unless you've been to those same places. Even then, they might not have the same weight. Living in Spain for me was such a turning point. So many good memories are rooted in Iberia, and the game brought so many of them back. Viva España!
I hadn't washed my navy blue Spain jersey since the team beat Portugal in the round of 16. I can finally clean that poor shirt, and might be on the prowl for another piece of team wear. Specifically, I'm thinking about one that has the world champion star over the national team embroidery. Might have to go with a red one.
Watching the game at a bar in Boulder, I started thinking about the year I spent over in Madrid. The memory of all the close friends I made in that wonderful city flooded back, and as I raised my hands in celebration of the winning goal, I was right back in La Pedriza with Matt, Tom, and Neil.
Seeing Spanish fans packed into the Plaza de Colon for the game, screaming their hopes at the enormous television screens set up for public viewing, brought me back. The streets of Moncloa rang with my footsteps as I paraded between bars with Vino and Nicole. Late nights on The Metro, our apartment above the Hotel Melia, and Pilar's place above Blended.
None of that is going to mean much unless you've been to those same places. Even then, they might not have the same weight. Living in Spain for me was such a turning point. So many good memories are rooted in Iberia, and the game brought so many of them back. Viva España!
Friday, June 25, 2010
The Salathe Wall
The final headwall on The Salathe Wall is one of rock climbing’s greatest pitches. This 240-foot stretch of brilliance caps one of the most famed routes on Yosemite’s El Capitan. The headwall is a perfect panel of overhanging granite, almost 3,000 feet above El Cap Meadow. While the tourists choke the road below, a laser cut finger crack starts at a huge roof and arches for a full 70 meters to the narrow, hanging confines of Long Ledge. This fissure is almost perfectly uniform, a half-inch crack with only the tiniest of edges peppering the face of America’s proudest rock monolith. The gray, white, orange and black granite was surely poured by Zeus himself.
It’s possible to free climb (just fingers and toes, no hanging on your rope from gear placed in the rock) all the way up from the roof to the ledge in one monster pitch that checks in at a very difficult 5.13c. For everyone other than the absolute elite, world-class climber, this is impossible. Instead, most people have to use aid (hanging from cams and nuts and stepping up on nylon ladders) to climb it, myself included. Early this summer, just for kicks, I added one more degree of difficulty. I led the headwall at 2 AM, illuminating the crack purely by headlamp, as my partner fought to stay awake while he hung above the abyss.
Had we been able to see the entire Southwest face of El Capitan falling away below our feet, Josh or I might have passed out. The terror of hanging that far into space has surely reduced better men to tears. Instead, we crawled slowly and half blind to the promise of an uncomfortable bivouac on Long Ledge, managing the fatigue of our back-to-back 16-hour climbing days by taking small bites of dried mango.
* * * *
Night climbing on the headwall wasn’t what Josh and I had set out to do. Our Yosemite plan began to take shape in the heart of Colorado’s winter, six months or so before we’d find ourselves up on The Salathe. Around Valentine’s Day, I heard back from graduate school. Though I hoped to enroll in a master’s program in renewable energy and resource conservation at Berkeley, they politely told me I should stay home. No love. The denial from a program I’d truly wanted to attend hit me pretty hard.
As soon as I let my friends know that I’d been denied, I was blown away by their support. Left and right, my best buddies picked me up, dusted me off, and began to bombard me with plans for replacing Berkeley with something more adventurous. One friend suggested Burning Man, a wild music/art/um…psychedelic festival in the Nevada desert that takes place every August. Another asked if I’d like to travel across Spain and France on bicycle, touring sport-climbing areas and drinking as much wine as possible. The most immediate suggestion came from Josh Finkelstein. When I told him I didn’t get accepted into the program, he patted me on the back and congratulated me. “Congratulations?” I wondered. Didn’t this asshole know how bummed out I was?
“You’ve been accepted into the prestigious Finkelstein School of Granite. Classes begin this spring. You and I are going to Yosemite.” 
* * * *
Fairly quickly, we set our eyes on one objective above all others. The Salathe was, without a doubt, THE route we wanted to do. It had the reputation of being one of the 50 best climbs in North America, and everyone we talked to who had done those 35 pitches glowed about their experience. Josh and I felt fairly comfortable that we could manage the difficulties, but there’s nothing like the unknown. Though each of us had been climbing obsessively for over a decade, each fully fit and capable of climbing 5.13, and each feeling reasonably dialed above gear, neither of us had done a route of that scope. At least Josh had previously climbed in Yosemite. I wasn’t entirely sure what I was in for.
The Salathe begins with a ten pitch route independently called The Freeblast. The Freeblast represent about 1/3rd of the height, but only about 1/6th of the effort. From there, the climbing meanders just left of the obvious “Heart,” and then past some of El Cap’s most defining and visible features; The Alcove, El Cap Spire, The Sewer, The Roof, and then, finally, The Headwall. 
“There’s a lot of wide up there,” said our friend Chris Brown.
My naivety took over. “Like Number 3 Camalots?”
“You fucking wish.”
Those nice, slightly wide handcracks that Number 3 Camalots indicate are few and far between. The “wide” that Chris mentioned comes in many forms. The most notorious is The Hollow Flake, just after the finish of The Freeblast. This pitch has a reputation as being nearly impossible to protect, and scary as hell. If you fall out of The Hollow Flake, you’ll take a swinging, 80-foot fall and smash into an adjacent corner. Simply put, don’t fall there.
After that is The Ear. A huge, looming bombay chimney that, fortunately, protects safely with a #6 Camalot, the largest available at over seven inches wide. In The Ear, the climber can scoot it along at an arm’s reach. When The Salathe Wall was first climbed in 1961, protection largely comprised of pitons and small metal nuts that could slot into finger sized cracks. Cams, the protection we now rely on so heavily, were years away. The fact that today, a climber can settle into a secure position and move this big piece of pro alongside him or her renders obsolete a comment made by Royal Robbins, part of the quartet who made the first ascent. Robbins deemed The Ear the most terrifying 5.7 in the world. His aid hammer and pins have been replaced by modern gear. Thank god.
Those two pitches are just the most infamous of “the wide.” The Half Dollar, The “5.7” Chimney, and The Monster Offwidth all guard against ascent. And when The Salathe doesn’t throw gaping cracks at the climber, there are still plenty of demanding pitches that, in spite of their more modest grade (in light of modern sport-climbing standards), take their toll. And, lest we forget, there’s that looming headwall.
Even given the route’s formidable pitches, Josh and I decided to throw another wrench into the mix. Most parties take around four days to do the climb, but our friend, Chris Klinga, had pulled off a speedy, two-day ascent of The Salathe Wall in 2007. At the time, he was a neophyte wall climber, but Chris assured us that he and his partner had simply taken along a very Spartan backpack instead of being bogged down by the widely accepted method of hauling a large, heavy bag. The second would jug the rope behind the leader and bring up the bag on his back. Josh and I shrugged off other people’s suggestions that jugging with a pack was tantamount to Guantanamo-inspired torture. 
Light and fast sounded pretty badass, and we figured that this style honored The Salathe’s place amongst the greats. “If we were going to do it,” we thought, “we might as well go big.”
Before we left Boulder, I saw my friend Timmy walking down the road. He was just back from some adventure, and I felt lucky to run into him. I explained our plan, and as is his typical style, Timmy got excited and was full of energetic support. “Just go for it!” he exclaimed in that devil-may-care voice.
When we drove into The Valley, Josh pulled the van over, and our necks craned to each vertebra’s full range until we could see the top of America’s most iconic piece of stone. The silence in the van and enormity of the rock was suffocating. “Jesus!” and an audible hard swallow, the only sounds as I contemplated what we’d signed up for. But then, sensing that the most difficult part of the whole climb might just be slinging the rack onto our harnesses and tying into the rope, Josh and I gave our best Timmy-O impression. “Just go for it!” A few days later, we’d do just that.
* * * *
Hanging out in El Cap Meadow, or next to Tom Evans, his camera, and high-powered spotting scope on The Bridge, it’s impossible not to daydream about what it’s going to be like on the wall. That sense of wonder is especially strong if you’ve never been up there. El Cap is The Valley’s magnet, and even though there are dozens of other famous rock faces to climb in Yosemite, that gray giant has an unmistakable pull. That very gravity started to weigh on my mind, especially as the time for climbing drew near. The doubts were creeping in. Throughout the trip, I’d been worked by most of the offwidth we’d climbed, and the prospect of climbing such a towering route with a modicum of gear left me feeling exposed.
Hopefully the weather would hold, because Josh and I had decided to leave the rain gear, bivy sacks, and extra clothes in the van. In the backpack, there was room for a few gallons of water, heavier than we wanted. We also brought four sandwiches, one dinner of burritos, nine bars each, dried fruit, and some Pop Tarts. We had one belay jacket, one lightweight sleeping bag, and two ultralight air mattresses. After that, we tossed in a very basic first-aid kit with the ironic branding of “Optimist,” an iPod, and a spliff. We would have brought two, but it was a tight packing job. So those, along with the rope, a tag line, and the rack, were the supplies that were taking us to the top.
The weather report showed an extended forecast of sunshine, with temps in the mid 70’s and a minimal chance of precipitation. Time to go. We set the alarm for 4:30, and tried to get some sleep. We awoke in the dark, and quietly ate the remains of our Curry Village pizza from the previous night. Our thermos had coffee, brewed the day before, and we drank it down to avoid the stove and save some time. Camp quickly broken, we drove to the parking area below the rock, and walked towards the wall just as daylight showed us our marvelous confines. Yosemite, during an anxious and expecting sunrise, is heaven.
I led the first block – The Freeblast. Given that Josh and I were not hauling, doing the route in blocks made the most sense. That would allow one climber to focus on the leading while the second stayed in his approach shoes and jugged each pitch. Even though ten pitches seemed like a long block, The Freeblast goes pretty quickly. Josh and I were able to cut in front of a German team at the base, and their acquiescence allowed us to get a jump on the morning. We gave them our best “danke” and stomped on the gas, climbing as fast as possible.
I was able to get through the first pitches of climbing, a long 5.10 section, some 5.8 fist sized crack, and then a 5.11 roof, reasonably quickly. We were finding a good rhythm and moving quickly – exactly what we needed. Josh and I would shout motivation to each other as much as possible. This often came in the form of simian grunts. I know it sounds weird, but when I’m sport climbing, there’s a lot of birdcalls. “Ca-Caw!” gets converted to the chimp's “Oomph, Oooph” when confronted by Yosemite’s granite. The myth of The Valley’s Stone Monkeys inspired us to call out those grunts from our bellies. 
On pitch 5, a thin and difficult to protect 5.10d, I ran into some trouble. The crack peters out and the only pro comes as Aliens (a specific type of cam prone to fitting into placements where no other cam can go. Alternatively, they’ve acquired a reputation for poor quality control, and every now and then an Alien will fall apart under no weight whatsoever) stuffed into pin scars. They’re as good as it gets for this sort of spot, but the flaring holes beaten into the crack by the aid hammers and pitons of yesteryear aren’t the uniform slots where cams work best. I carefully tucked a red Alien into a pin scar, and then committed to the delicate, run-out moves above. A bolt was just out of reach at the top of the unprotectable seam, and as I smeared my feet and tried to gain those extra millimeters, I felt my balance shift.
As I peeled off the face, I had time to grab the rope and make sure it wouldn’t run behind my leg, flipping me ass over teakettle. Then, Josh and I locked wide eyes, and I went for a 30-foot ride. The cam held, and Josh’s belay brought me to a stop as softly as possible. “Holy shit!” I hollered. There we were, going fast, taking the whip on The Capitan. I felt a wave of inspiration come over me, and quickly pulled back up to the Alien and beyond. I didn’t fall there again, and the adrenaline brought me past the next few pitches.
By early afternoon, the end of my block was coming close. I squirmed up the Half Dollar, an interesting chimney feature that forces the climber to turn out and peer towards the valley floor. I could see the trees below, beginning to look less like pines, and more like scrappy bushes. We were really gaining some altitude. Josh did the last bit of jugging, and met me above this pitch on a comfortable ledge. Here, he changed into his free climbing shoes, and started to make the transition. Though he still followed this last bit, we decided it was faster if he just climbed the long, traversing ramps. We topped out The Freeblast with 200 feet of simul-climbing. Then, Josh and I sat back on a large series of ledges called Mammoth Terraces. We drank plenty of water, ate a well-earned sandwich each, and reflected on the climbing to come.
Every bite we took lessened the weight of the backpack, we hoped optimistically. Slinging it onto my back for the first time, though, I realized that it was still painfully heavy. Hadn’t we aimed for light and fast? The straps dug into my shoulders, and I knew that I had a long afternoon ahead of me. When I saw the climbing ahead, though, I gladly accepted the trade. Straight above was plenty of that infamous “wide.” “Good luck, partner,” I thought, as Josh took the lead. 
The next pitches would be the most strenuous, and potentially dangerous, of the route. Josh started with a short pitch of reasonable climbing, and then we arrived at the famed Hollow Flake. The crack width occasionally accepts a hip, but never feels secure. If the climber can squirm completely into the crack, falling becomes almost impossible. Upward progress is slow, but the head-to-toe friction lessens gravity’s downward pull. The Hollow Flake won’t let a climber inside, and as the rope slowly moved out from my belay device, I became more and more thankful that Josh had volunteered for this section.
As Josh neared the top of the Hollow Flake, I figured that he was probably having the most trouble keeping his mind steady and on the task at hand. It’s one thing knowing that you can take a big fall into space and onto solid gear. Keeping focus knowing there’s zero room for error takes amazing mental steel. Though he was around a corner and out of sight, I knew things finally came to a good conclusion when I heard another climber, high above us on the face, call out “Hollow Flake cleared!” and a dozen climbers shout out in encouragement and congratulations. Josh had gotten the rope up the most terrifying pitch of all 35.
We still had several infamous pitches above, notably the “5.7 Chimney” and “The Ear,” a huge Bombay slot that Royal Robbins dubbed “the most terrifying pitch of 5.7 in the world.” Again, I was thankful that it was part of Josh’s block, and I simply did the monotonous work of sliding up the fixed rope that Josh fixed at each belay. This monotonous work became nearly impossible in the “5.7 Chimney.” With the pack on my body, I couldn’t fit into the space where Josh had just climbed. I struggled and thrashed against my ascenders, but made painfully little progress. We hadn’t planned on this.
I clipped my GriGri onto the rope, released my ascenders, and slid back to the start of the pitch. Then, I took off the pack and left it on the ledge. There was no way I’d be able to jug this pitch with the pack, and instead, cleaned the remaining gear without the hindrance of our bag. I popped out from the chimney at Josh’s feet, and he began to congratulate me on my progress.
“Way to go man! You’re…wait. Where’s the bag?!?!”
I could feel the desperation in Josh’s voice. Exasperated, I explained how the chimney had crushed me. I felt a little air go out of our team. We were beginning to tire, and the sun was racing to the horizon. I still had to go back to the ledge and get the bag, and this would take time. The additional work would mean we’d finish in the dark. Wordlessly, I returned to the ledge for the bag, and then jugged up the rope that was now free to run outside the chimney. Josh started to climb towards The Ear, and knew that we’d need to avoid another time-sink like the one we’d just endured.
The Ear didn’t give Josh too much trouble, save for the two puncture wounds he suffered when he was cleaning a big #5 Camalot from behind him. It stuck for a moment, but then popped free to smack him across the face. He had to keep cleaning the gear from behind him so we wouldn't repeat the earlier jugging debacle. Back cleaning an entire pitch can get stressful, though, because you get farther and farther from the belay with only one or two pieces protecting against a fall. When he got to the anchor above The Ear, I heard in his voice a sincere fatigue. “No gear in there, Patty. Should go well.” 
The light was fading, but I realized that the fear I’d felt on the ground was slowly being eaten away. We were making good progress, and though we would finish in the dark, we’d reach, more or less, our goal for the day. We had originally hoped to sleep on El Cap Spire, an amazing pinnacle of rock that is detached on all sides from the wall. Instead, we came up one pitch short. Josh and I made our camp at The Alcove, and as we pulled into this room sized cave, met up with a surprise duo. Our friends Casey and Lukas, both from Boulder, had been in front of us all day. The four of us exclaimed how nice it was to have the familiar company. They were doing the wall as a team of three, and Scott, their third, was up on The Spire. After a few quick stories, Casey and Lukas nodded off to sleep in the portaledge they’d dragged along. A flat, hanging cot is one of the creature comforts a climber has available when they haul gear. So is a stove. Josh and I, however, ate our cold burritos, and then snuggled in for the night on a sloping, lumpy stretch of granite directly under their cot. Sharing a sleeping bag isn’t so bad when you’re too exhausted to notice.
* * * *
We awoke in The Alcove the following morning to a word that would be uttered a number of times that day: Clusterfuck. After a breakfast of Pop-tarts and a quick romp up to El Cap Spire, we saw cracks streaming with water and seven fixed ropes clogging any ability at upward progress. It’s a good thing we didn’t push all the way to The Spire, as there was no vacancy anyway. We found ourselves behind our friends from Boulder, but also two groups trying to do The Freerider, a variation of The Salathe that runs concurrently until the last several pitches. This traffic jam was going to slow our upward motion 
severely, and Josh and I had little to do but wait our turn at each belay. Passing some of the parties would have probably been beneficial, but, in all honesty, the other groups were going about as fast as we were. Jumping them in line only to have them wait for us seemed senseless, and with that, we settled into a slow day and the knowledge that our plan for only one night on the wall might not work out.
Again, we split the climbing into blocks. Josh led the first six pitches of the day, the most memorable being a section nicknamed The Sewer. This portion of the wall is always soaked, but as we climbed it, the water seemed to be coming down with unusual cruelty. A steady stream dripped on both of us, and as I jugged, watched as water was wrung from the sheath of our rope as my ascender bit down.
As I watched the water leave the rope like drying laundry put through a wringer, a weird but unmistakable sound came from above me. The rope had wedged behind one of our pieces of protection, and at a certain point, the angle and force combined to push the cam so deeply into the crack that I’d never hope to free it. The rope ran from my ascenders, then inside of a crack in a huge roof, through a stuck cam, and then out from the rock up to Josh. I had absolutely no way to proceed, as the rock literally blocked my way.
I was faced with an ugly dilemma. I built an anchor with some of the gear I’d already cleaned out of The Sewer, and hung on these pieces. Then, I shouted up to Josh that I needed to unclip my ascenders from the rope and have him pull it up. This would free the rope, I hoped, but then he’d need to drop it back down to me. Unfortunately, I was under a roof, and also off to the side of his belay stance. That meant there wasn’t necessarily a guarantee that he could get the rope back to me. I weighed this nasty calculus in my head, but realized that I didn’t have any other options. The rope snaked away, and I dangled, now disconnected from my partner, 1,700 feet above the Merced River. Josh tried to toss the rope back to me, but could only succeed in getting it about 15 feet to my left. He flipped it back and forth, but the distance was hopeless. 
You can’t plan for everything. When we were on the ground, debating about what to bring and how we’d split the climbing, I never imagined that I’d need to hang out while Josh tried to toss me the rope. Before things got hopeless, though, I realized that I still had the tag line, our thin, 8-millimeter static rope, running between us. This second cord was our margin of safety, and would allow us to rappel the route if we absolutely had to. Now it was about to save my ass in an entirely unintended way. Though it was too thin to ascend, Josh could clip our free hanging lead line to the tag line, and this would guide the newly freed rope back to me. The makeshift plan worked perfectly. The visions of my skeleton, rotting in its harness under that roof, disappeared as I clipped back into the rope and motored up to Josh.
After this near miss, I was eager to swap duties. Josh put on his approach shoes while I switched to my climbing boots and discarded the pack. I felt so much lighter, so unburdened. Most importantly, I finally felt like I was contributing to the second day of the ascent. Josh and I had spent the majority of the day waiting at belay stations, watching the sun cruise towards the horizon. This provided plenty of time to chat and look at the topo. We realized that there was almost no chance we’d make the summit that day, but instead, decided to aim for Long Ledge.
Starting to lead as fast as I could manage, I tried to link two pitches into nearly a full rope length. I climbed the first bit of beautiful 5.10 hand crack, thinking, “Finally! Those number 3’s!” As the pitch steepened and my muscles lagged, I began to aid through the pitch. Done as a free climb, the remaining 140 feet would go at 5.12d, but I realized that it would be much faster to simply aid to the belay. I finished just below the famous roof, a nearly horizontal stretch that leaves the climber feeling like the last autumn leaf on a tree. 
Josh met me at the belay under the roof, and the light began to fade substantially. For the second day in a row, we affixed our headlamps to our helmets. We knew that we still had at least three pitches until we’d get to a ledge where we could sleep. The artificial light would just add to the adventure. With the new illumination, I led out the steep roof, and onto the headwall above. Slowly, I made my way out from under the roof, and by the time I’d climbed those 100 feet to the hanging belay just below the headwall pitch, every hint of sunlight had vanished.
* * * *
With the daylight gone, so was much of the day’s warmth. The dark slowed us down substantially, but this only added to our uncomfortable cold. My headlamp lit the rock just in front of my face, but it also showed the faint wisps of breath that came from my mouth. I looked at Josh, wrapped in our only jacket, and thought about how we might have wanted another layer. Well, tough shit. Time to get climbing.
Just off the anchor, with only that thin beam of light to show the way, I found myself dealing with some difficult gear placements. That headwall crack was just ahead, but before I could get to the security of its crack and the promise of solid gear, I had to fiddle with some tiny brass nuts, smaller than pencil erasers. At nearly midnight, close to 3,000 feet off the ground, hanging in my aiders from tiny protection, I felt more alive than ever. My mind hardly noticed the distractions. I was in that place of focus, that “flowstate,” where climbing so often takes me. But then, I rushed a placement.
I tried to place a piece that didn’t seat particularly well. As I stood up to slot my next piece of gear, I heard, and then felt, a pop. Without time to realize the physics, I had plummeted at least 20 feet, and was just above Josh, right back at the belay. I wasn’t proving to be a particularly adept aid climber, but I was getting really good at whipping on The Capitan. I thanked Josh for the catch, and then, again, pulled back up to the piece that had caught my fall, an ancient aluminum head that had long ago been pounded into the rock. Who knows how many more falls it will take? I picked a better-sized nut, weighted it, and found myself into the headwall crack. I could breathe a little easier.
Above, I found much easier aid climbing and made progress. It was slow, certainly, but it was steady. I got into a bit of a rhythm, and began to see an end to our second marathon day. After an hour or so, I could make out the ledge we were aiming for. Finally, after a few more hairy aid moves, and with visions of my last fall fresh in my mind, I pulled onto Long Ledge. I tied the rope off for Josh, and collapsed in a heap. It was 2AM.
Long Ledge turned out to basically be a rock ditch. This perch, a scant 3 feet wide, would have to suffice. Scott, Casey and Lukas had decided to sleep on Long Ledge, as well. Thankfully, they had their ledge, and knew to expect our arrival. They didn’t leave a light on for us, but did leave us just enough room to flop down in utter exhaustion. Since Josh and I would share a sleeping bag, we’d have to cuddle with our feet in the other’s armpits. 
Josh and I pushed and folded our sleeping pads in a vain attempt at comfort. We licked a few scraps of food from the Tupperware that held the remains of our previous night’s dinner. Then, finally, we passed out on a ledge that was tighter than a sidewalk. When we awoke the next morning, we looked over our shoulders and saw the drop down to the valley below. Doing that final stretch in the dark may have been a godsend, because if we’d have been able to realize the position we were in, we might have screamed in pure, unadulterated terror.
The morning thankfully arrived as another day of sunshine, and as I rubbed sleep from my eyes, I was again amazed at how well I could sleep, even in such a wild position. Josh and I had only four more pitches to the summit, so we lazily awaited the direct sunlight to hit our camp. After a couple of slightly chilly hours, we started moving. Josh took the leading responsibility, and uneventfully raced up the four remaining pitches. For the first time in three days, we ended our climbing in daylight. We pulled up and onto the top of El Capitan, the entire Yosemite Valley stretching out below us. Josh and I could hardly speak. We just gave each other a hug, and realized that, for both of us, there would never be another experience like our maiden voyage to the top of The Capitan.
* * * *
It’s been nearly two weeks since we returned to the ground, drove home to Colorado, and got back to “normal” life. Work is, as you might guess, pretty mellow in comparison to what we’d just done. That’s not to say our regular lives are bad. I don’t think I could handle doing walls full-time. Hell, the World Cup is on, and I love watching the games from the comfort of a couch. I love talking on the phone, eating good food, drinking warm tea, and seeing my friends and family. And maybe that’s the point. I feel like I have been able to enjoy life’s subtler, more predictable moments. But I don’t want to get too predictable. Now that I know how the moon feels under my feet, I look up towards the stars every night through new eyes. That feeling, my friends, is Abaluba. Go live big.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Valley Update from the Eastside
OH BOY! It's so good to bring you an update from the beautiful Eastside of the Sierra here in California. Josh and I had been in the Valley for a while, doing some more training routes in preparation for our jaunt up The Capitan. I can't spray about the plans, other than to say we're hopefully doing it.
One of the prep routes was Central Pillar of Frenzy on Middle Cathedral. I took a pic of our cross-valley neighbor, and also a neat little video.
Otherwise, we've been hanging out in Tuolomne (Tioga Pass just opened) and reliving some of that magic that those meadows and granite domes has in spades. The last time I was up there, Rob Coppolillo and I were cragging and nursing sore necks from craning our eyes towards Cathedral Peak and Tenaya. This time, Tenaya Lake was under snow, and waterfalls were flowing everywhere. It was an alpine wonderland.
After Tuolomne, we bounced down to the Eastside and had a meal at the world famous Whoa Nellie Deli. This place serves, no joke, some of the most incredible food I've eaten. Certainly, those lobster taquitos take the cake for best meal I've ever had out of a Mobil gas station. Wolfing down the red corn wraps, pineapple salsa, green chile and fresh green salad, all while looking at the sunset over Mono Lake, was about as good as it gets when you're decompressing and hanging out after a few days in Yosemite's madness.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Images from Yosemite
I've been able to take a few photos and shoot a couple of videos from these last few days in Yosemite.
In short, Josh and I started our climbing here with a route called The Moratorium, a "5.11B" finger crack that leads up to the start of the East Buttress of El Capitan. We were hoping to link the two climbs into one big day, but there has been a ton of snowfall this winter, and the Yosemite waterfalls are in full force. Subsequently, the East Butt was soaked, and we had little to do after finishing The Moratorium but look up, think twice, and start the long, slow slog down towards the van.
Yesterday, we made the big approach up to Higher Cathedral and did a super classic, big route called The Northeast Buttress. This Grade IV (big day for most parties) was, in fact, a ton of work. Pitch after pitch of what can only be described as "manly" wide climbing finally deposited up at the summit, and gave us a perfect view of Higher Cathedral Spire, an independent formation just across a small gully.
Today, we're resting, catching up on life outside The Ditch, and enjoying a leisurely, stunningly beautiful day in the shadow of El Cap, Half Dome, and The Sentinel. This is a magical place. The walls are big and intimidating, the climbing is hard, and the feeling of one's own insignificance is magnified by the thundering Yosemite Falls and a sea of golden granite.
The Road to Yosemite
I’ve neglected the blog lately, it’s true. I’m back though, trying to do a better job with Abaluba from the road. That sounds like a losing proposition. Adventures through the Colorado Plateau, SugarHouse area of SLC, Reno/Tahoe, and finally, Yosemite, are going to leave me with less steady internets, and we all know how I’ve done over the last few weeks while I was still in Boulder. A man’s allowed to try, though, so bear with me.
I’m out on the road until mid June with my buddy Josh. You might remember that I applied to grad school at the end of 2009, though in February or so of this year, found out that Berkeley didn’t desire my academic services. Immediately at the time, Josh accepted me into the Finkelstein School of Granite, and classes have just begun.
My first course in this prestigious area of study took place in Eldorado Springs. Imagine my surprise when I was climbing the towering Naked Edge with Josh. Here I thought I’d be climbing exclusively on that stone who’s grandeur was once described as “King Daddy,” and the first thing we got on was sandstone. Good thing it’s one of the best routes in the country. The Naked Edge, towering over the entire Front Range, snakes up a perfect arête for six pitches, and delivers move after move of memorable exposure. I managed to do it without falling, though there were times when the insecure climbing left me feeling like I might be dangling from the end of our rope at any moment. Josh had done the route before, so he was content to give me the lead on the starting pitch, a remarkable finger crack just five feet from that namesake edge. I also got to link that into the second pitch, a bit of a wandering arête/slab pitch that culminated 140 feet or so with a committing move above great gear, but with the threat of a big fall if I didn’t dance the required dance.
After one more lead (a wild stemming chimney) and two other leads by Josh, we were standing on top of Boulder County, planning our descent down the East Slabs while locking eyes with a proud peregrine. Back down to the ground, we headed for the house to pack his van, and then took off Westward for a trip down into the intimidating Black Canyon of the Gunnison.
Hades. If Yosemite is that King Daddy, Zeusian stone, then The Black is made up of rock straight from the lithifying river Styx. A gash, straight down into the Earth’s mantel, and the only way in is down a loose, tick-infested gully. Don’t worry, everywhere you step, there’s likely frothing poison ivy. Once you finally make it down to the start of your climb, whether that’s at the shore of the thundering Gunnison River or on a buttress higher up the gully, the walls look down at you and ask if you’d like a beating. No option but to take it like a man and get your whooping. The rock is loose, the protection occasionally scarce, and the routefinding difficult, we managed to tick off a classic called Comic Relief and then get so hopelessly off route on another that we then just tucked tail and headed for Grand Junction.
Perhaps the best story of our time in the ditch was as we were realizing our mistake on a route called Debutante’s Ball. We found ourselves on a sloping ledge, loose blocks all waiting to cut our ropes like daggers if even looked at crookedly, and the only way up was out an exfoliating pegmatite band that looked deadly loose. Retreat! We managed to find other people’s bail stations, so we only ended up leaving a little cord, one nut, and a biner, but no sooner were we back to where we’d started the climb did we realize that now we had to walk up and out that same S.O.B. gully. Normally, you at least get the glory of just topping out the climb and waddling over to your camp for a beer. Insult to injury, I suppose, except that no one was hurt in the making of this adventure.
And now we’re on I80, Reno in our sights, but without AC, the van is cooking us. The Death Star is high in the sky, and we’re just hoping to race it to the state line before we’re turned to leather.
Crew stagnation. It’s a thought I’ve been toying with a lot lately. Last year was my best year of climbing, by far, and I almost entirely ascribe credit to my friends. They were the ones who got me motivated to train in the gym harder, to get on routes that might have felt over my head, and who patiently belayed me as I made the slow and necessary progress to break into the 5.13 level.
Josh is a similar motivating force. He’s focused near singularly on the granite, in his mind the holiest of stones. I’ve opened my mind to the possibility of long free routes done on gear, and on stepping up to those classic routes that comprise so much of our lore. The generation behind us laid a foundation for visionary routes, and though the culture now emphasizes the hard sport routes, I’m glad to be getting back to my roots. I feel that I’m straddling a good balance at the moment. I’m trying to get out and do those seminal lines that have stood the test of time, but at the same time, embracing the fact that hard sport climbing is where we out our marbles these days.
Right now, I’m in more of a classic phase, but I realize that the two play in harmony. Shit. It helps to be strong. To know that you can put a harder to bed without as much fuss. And I’m hoping that the balance I’m feeling, one toe on either area of focus, stays with me as I try to tiptoe up the great white walls of America’s climbing Mecca – Yosemite.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
The Rainbow Wall
(Photos by Chris Brown. His blog (and entire website) is a must see: highexposures.com
Fast and light? In a day push? I've talked to several friends who have done The Original Route on The Rainbow Wall in a day, car to car in 14 hours. One of Red Rocks proudest features reduced to a game of tag. Sure, we're physically able, but that's not the point. This isn't about ego. We were not trying to race up towards the summit of Rainbow Mountain, visible all the way from The Strip, and tick it off like the green route in the gym. Don’t get me wrong, we're not trying to minimize such an approach, if that’s your goal. Our team of three, Josh Finkelstein, Chris Brown, and myself, all project and sport climb. There's a time and a place for racing, but for us, this line didn't qualify. We sat back to take in the experience, to let it wash over us and clean the grime of city life from our skin. We were only out there for two days, but the entire time, we hoped it would never end.
Fast and light? In a day push? I've talked to several friends who have done The Original Route on The Rainbow Wall in a day, car to car in 14 hours. One of Red Rocks proudest features reduced to a game of tag. Sure, we're physically able, but that's not the point. This isn't about ego. We were not trying to race up towards the summit of Rainbow Mountain, visible all the way from The Strip, and tick it off like the green route in the gym. Don’t get me wrong, we're not trying to minimize such an approach, if that’s your goal. Our team of three, Josh Finkelstein, Chris Brown, and myself, all project and sport climb. There's a time and a place for racing, but for us, this line didn't qualify. We sat back to take in the experience, to let it wash over us and clean the grime of city life from our skin. We were only out there for two days, but the entire time, we hoped it would never end.
Climbers are so regularly emboldened to push their limits because of gear and the results of freakish fitness schedules. Cams are so well engineered, ropes withstand unimaginable forces. Boulder has four incredible climbing gyms for my training pleasure! Boil that together, and you’ve got a potent motivational tea that allows climbers to push it. We see, in videos, blogs, and magazine pages, the glory of our heroes on walls farther and much more remote than the outskirts of Vegas. After enough climbing porn, we have the belief that we're capable, perhaps vicariously, of only slightly more modest feats. Josh, Chris and I picked The Rainbow Wall. We dared to even choose a style. We decided on a relaxed pace, a team of three. Two nights of bivying with our morning coffee made from snow, and the dazzling lights of a desert tumor blotting out the dark, only a few miles below.
We slept at the base of the route the night before climbing. 
We hiked in as the sun slid past the mountains, the heat of the day riding like a fog on the trail. As the daylight softened towards evening and the temperature incrementally dipped, we finished the final slabs and saw our new home, if even only a temporary one. A perfect, level ledge, four feet by six. Our heads touched the nadir of the central dihedral that leads defiantly, proudly, to a summit 1,200 feet away. A small ring of stones outlining our bedroom. A meek defense against the wind; an appropriate metaphor as man chops hopefully against the very air he breathes.
We spent the night watching stars wheel above our hanging, stone ceiling. It's a view we'd never enjoyed, were the ideal style a blitzkrieg. A ring-tail cat pondered the scent of our food, our nocturnal friend greeting his guests at only the proper moment. Dawn kissed us awake, and we lazily pulled warm sleeping bags over our heads, hoping for a few more minutes of dreamtime.
We climbed all day. The pace of our pitches was unhurried, methodical. Adventure whispered as wonder when we were unable to decide if we'd picked the wrong crack system. From a large ledge system 800 feet up the face, it grew quiet for a moment as we relaxed in our confusion, an island on this sea of sandstone. That adventure loudly returned as a fist; a large boulder falls from above and chops into one of our ropes like a hatchet. We survive, and then can only smile in return, thankful for the gifts. This beautiful wall was made even more unique for us; the moment's ultimately benign danger delivered us from our narcissistic comfort.
From the summit, we rappel back to the bivy ledge. The Spanish saying: "What's the value in rushing?" Indeed, and what luck! Anyone fancy another evening under The Dipper? We called in that second day of bivy permits, so let’s use it! A feast awaits; cashews and figs in a stuff sack with the packs. There’s more snow for coffee. We can walk home tomorrow. Let’s keep this dream alive, or should I say…let’s keep living the dream. 
(NOTE: Readers are urged to clink the link that leads this entry. Chris Brown compiled video footage of the climb from a helmet cam on Josh's helmet, as well as video that Chris shot while following the route. He is also the talented photographer who took the shots I uploaded. The band playing is Pretty Lights, a local DJ/drummer combo that are hugely interesting. Great live show. Comments? I (as well as Chris) would love to get feedback on this story and his blog/video. Thanks for reading.)
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