Oh, what a strange way to live a life. My friend Mike tried to enumerate what it must be like for a person who doesn't climb were they to describe the whole dance: "So, you put your fingers into cracks in the rock and twist them until they bleed...?"
In a sense, yeah. But trust me, it's more than that. A little blood is just superficial damage. It's all worth it. Climbing is the most valuable way I've ever found to spend my time. I love (most of) the people I climb with. Many areas are stunning in their natural beauty. And the act itself is a version of yoga. Our bodies contort into these particular positions that are unique and esoteric. If we lose balance, coming out of the "pose," gravity calls. We've got to have strong bodies to do this, but in reality, mental focus and emotional control are equally important. If you don't clear away the clutter, climbing's impossible. Ego, desire, stress...they're all weights to be discarded.
And working routes or boulder problems that are at the edge of what feels possible that day, month, or year? Those "projects" that become the object of obsession? Those are headstands, handstands, the splits. They're levitation. They're magic. Take something that feels impossibly difficult, and slowly chip away at it. Learn subtle ways to move your hips as you stand on tip-toe, or the best place for your thumb on a divot or rock. Enmesh yourself with a tiny piece of the physical world. Borrow a little piece of it, make it your love, your playground. Now you've got a project.
Sometimes that desire to eventually succeed, that same weight that only holds you down, gets painfully intense. I wanted to do Table of Colors at The Red, but I had a deadline looming and wasn't able to learn everything I needed before the bell rang, ending my time in Kentucky. I had to walk away, unrequited. Right now, I'm hugely focused on a route up in Boulder Canyon called Vasodialator. Indeed, it gets the sanguine juice flowing. I've got to do it quickly, though, or I'll have to walk away.
I spend so much time projecting in Rifle, but it's too cold out there this time of year. In my back yard is a granite canyon, so far removed in character from the limestone out west which eats my summer and fall. Up this local drainage only a few minutes from my door, smattered with igneous faces, Vasodialator rests like a sphinx. The aspect faces south, so the sun will catch the stone and warm the holds even if the air temperature is wintry. Assuming, that is, that the sun is shining.
The last few times I'd been up to try the route, those necessary UV rays have played coy, hiding behind the clouds like nervous teens against the wall at a school dance. Come play soon, because I'm looking like an ass out here on the floor, shaking my best Electric Slide in solitude. I've tried in vain recently, knowing that my time, again, is limited. The rock face that holds Vasodialator closes on February 1 in order to allow nesting birds the chance to rear young in privacy. I want to get it done, but that mental pressure I'm putting on myself might well be the very thing that's keeping me from success.
I certainly can't blame my partners. Blake and Jason, two good buddies, have each offered to hike up to Blob Rock (such a terrible name) on their off days to give me a needed belay on the route. I can't sufficiently express how much I appreciate their sacrifice. The hike is steep, the belay is cold, and the rewards have, so far, been non existent. This weekend, it looks like I'll have my final chance to get up there, again with Jason, and try to relax as I do battle with my own personal nemesis before the birds take it away.
***
The physical act of climbing has drawn me in and stolen my attention. At the end of the day, though, it is largely a metaphor. The Project Dilemma is yet another lens through which I can view my life, hopefully gaining perspective and improving. Here I want something so badly, but in wanting it, I overgrip, hasten my breath, and have no choice but to feel gravity's insatiable grip.
At a party last week, I saw my longtime friend Josh Finkelstein. I always enjoy his company and conversation, but with his residence in Denver and mine in Boulder, we don't cross paths as often as I'd like. At our last meeting, we were catching up, laughing and telling jokes and stories. Before I knew it, my mind was distancing itself from the catch up session as I planned on the next time Josh and I could get out and climb together, or perhaps grab a beer.
Back to the present, PattyP! I had to let go of that desire to plan the future and, once able, I was back in the company of old pals.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Losing It
There's a phrase used at hospitals for a terminal patient who is about to go. They're "circling the drain". Such a description is, oh, what's the word? Hummm. It's not romantic, exactly. Colloquial, yes, that's the one. Pleasant and descriptive, it takes the edge off such an unpleasant eventuality. So much easier to think of someone as a piece of flotsam, suspended in the bathwater, moments away from a softly audible "gulp" and then a fun-filled water park ride through a network of pipes, perhaps some bleach at the behest of the local Water Works Department, and finally, the East River.
Certainly the doctors and nurses who look down upon the ailing and fading grandmother understand that there is a human story under that paper thin hospital gown. After all, how could they not? There's a likely gaggle of wailing family begging for answers and scientific justification as to how the hell this could have happened. "This is America, damnit, and there's no excuse for aging! Don't tell me Nana isn't going to make it. Fix her up and let us take her back home. Produce that time machine you've been hiding and return to me the spry 70 year old sass-pot who loves to dance and tells me stories of her boyfriends before the war."
But then the sad realization for the gaggle. Nana's not coming back. She's, oh, how do we put it? She's circling the drain. The inexorable marching of time.
I've burned through 28 years, and can't get away from the feeling that these grains of sand are too quickly falling through the hour glass. I sometimes think it might be easier if all of us knew the exact date we'd be called back from recess, forced to give up our Earthly bodies and move on to whatever comes next.
I'm 1 for 2 in the Dying Nana Department. The day my father's mother passed away, we were getting ready for dinner in the kitchen when the phone rang. I suppose as a function of the fact that the children were 18, 16, 16, and 14, we were all milling around and basically in the same room. Any time the universe has shattering news to deliver, it's easier, I assume, that the primary interested parties hear it simultaneously. This was before the widespread adoption of cell phones, and I imagine the Reaper was happy to save on long distance charges.
In this particular case, the Reaper was my great uncle, T-Mac. Before Jennifer Lopez was JLO, Alex Rodriguez was A-Roid, and Tracy McGrady rose to basketball stardom, ascending to such a lofty nickname, my grandmother's brother was named Tyson MacRae. The original T-Mac dialed our home and I answered the phone. Without even a moment to think about why this seldom heard voice was calling, T-Mac asked for my father and I passed the receiver. My dad almost immediately sank down into a chair and made a sound I'd never heard from him before. To be quite honest, I'd give up climbing for the assurance that I will never have to hear him so instantaneously demolished again. I remember thinking that he sounded like a man had kicked him in the ribs with a steel toed boot, the air so forcefully coming out of him while he struggled to control its exodus.
My father, standing, unflappable and always in control of what he'd say and do.
My father, slumped over, turned inside out.
As we'd all come to understand in those next teary, demoralizing few minutes, my grandmother, GiGi we'd called her, had died of a massive heart attack while waiting for her luggage to arrive at the baggage claim of the San Fransisco airport. In a very public setting, she'd clutched her chest, lost consciousness, and died before she fell to the floor. I find it interesting to think that somewhere in the world are at least several people who remember a day in August, back in 1999, when they witnessed a woman pass away. There they stood, extras in this scene, without even knowing it.
In a way, this was easier than having a prolonged decay. I had visited my grandmother earlier that summer and remember the final time I'd seen her. Again, an airport, this time in Dallas. In those bucolic days before we knew of the maniacs planning our violent demise, a grandmother could walk to the gate with her grandson and wish him safe travels back to Colorado. The grandson could look back for the laboring woman, her aging lungs struggling to keep up with the demands for oxygenated blood. He'd see her seated on a bench, alive now, but fading. He'd know, somewhere deep down and yet unspeakable, that this was the last time he would see her alive. But at least he could come to such a sad realization at the gate, on the safe side of security clearance.
A few weeks after waving goodbye at the airport, I'd return to Dallas with my family and we'd bury Gigi. I'd speak at the funeral, shake T-Mac's hand and try to act like a man. If memory serves, I would largely succeed. Sadness certainly prevailed at the event, but I felt a level of understanding with the order of things. I think I could reason the loss with the knowledge that I'd said goodbye, and that it was time for her to go. I'd come to peace with Gigi's circles, and just in time.
Certainly the doctors and nurses who look down upon the ailing and fading grandmother understand that there is a human story under that paper thin hospital gown. After all, how could they not? There's a likely gaggle of wailing family begging for answers and scientific justification as to how the hell this could have happened. "This is America, damnit, and there's no excuse for aging! Don't tell me Nana isn't going to make it. Fix her up and let us take her back home. Produce that time machine you've been hiding and return to me the spry 70 year old sass-pot who loves to dance and tells me stories of her boyfriends before the war."
But then the sad realization for the gaggle. Nana's not coming back. She's, oh, how do we put it? She's circling the drain. The inexorable marching of time.
I've burned through 28 years, and can't get away from the feeling that these grains of sand are too quickly falling through the hour glass. I sometimes think it might be easier if all of us knew the exact date we'd be called back from recess, forced to give up our Earthly bodies and move on to whatever comes next.
I'm 1 for 2 in the Dying Nana Department. The day my father's mother passed away, we were getting ready for dinner in the kitchen when the phone rang. I suppose as a function of the fact that the children were 18, 16, 16, and 14, we were all milling around and basically in the same room. Any time the universe has shattering news to deliver, it's easier, I assume, that the primary interested parties hear it simultaneously. This was before the widespread adoption of cell phones, and I imagine the Reaper was happy to save on long distance charges.
In this particular case, the Reaper was my great uncle, T-Mac. Before Jennifer Lopez was JLO, Alex Rodriguez was A-Roid, and Tracy McGrady rose to basketball stardom, ascending to such a lofty nickname, my grandmother's brother was named Tyson MacRae. The original T-Mac dialed our home and I answered the phone. Without even a moment to think about why this seldom heard voice was calling, T-Mac asked for my father and I passed the receiver. My dad almost immediately sank down into a chair and made a sound I'd never heard from him before. To be quite honest, I'd give up climbing for the assurance that I will never have to hear him so instantaneously demolished again. I remember thinking that he sounded like a man had kicked him in the ribs with a steel toed boot, the air so forcefully coming out of him while he struggled to control its exodus.
My father, standing, unflappable and always in control of what he'd say and do.
My father, slumped over, turned inside out.
As we'd all come to understand in those next teary, demoralizing few minutes, my grandmother, GiGi we'd called her, had died of a massive heart attack while waiting for her luggage to arrive at the baggage claim of the San Fransisco airport. In a very public setting, she'd clutched her chest, lost consciousness, and died before she fell to the floor. I find it interesting to think that somewhere in the world are at least several people who remember a day in August, back in 1999, when they witnessed a woman pass away. There they stood, extras in this scene, without even knowing it.
In a way, this was easier than having a prolonged decay. I had visited my grandmother earlier that summer and remember the final time I'd seen her. Again, an airport, this time in Dallas. In those bucolic days before we knew of the maniacs planning our violent demise, a grandmother could walk to the gate with her grandson and wish him safe travels back to Colorado. The grandson could look back for the laboring woman, her aging lungs struggling to keep up with the demands for oxygenated blood. He'd see her seated on a bench, alive now, but fading. He'd know, somewhere deep down and yet unspeakable, that this was the last time he would see her alive. But at least he could come to such a sad realization at the gate, on the safe side of security clearance.
A few weeks after waving goodbye at the airport, I'd return to Dallas with my family and we'd bury Gigi. I'd speak at the funeral, shake T-Mac's hand and try to act like a man. If memory serves, I would largely succeed. Sadness certainly prevailed at the event, but I felt a level of understanding with the order of things. I think I could reason the loss with the knowledge that I'd said goodbye, and that it was time for her to go. I'd come to peace with Gigi's circles, and just in time.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
I've been abandoned. My solitary heart is lying on the ground in a thousand shattered pieces (and mixing nicely with the occasional razor blade of glass that still finds it's way into my foot while I walk through the kitchen). It's all Brian's fault. His cougar ladyfriend, Kelli, should shoulder some of this blame, too.
The two of them went to California this long weekend to celebrate Dr. King's fantastic accomplishments. I know you're assuming that they're marching in San Fransisco in the name of peace and racial equality, but don't forget that deep down in the black pit of my soul, I'm a climbing bum. So are these two friends of mine. And as such, they're raising a black-gloved fist to the sky at the Jailhouse, a great winter climbing area about two hours east of San Jose. Those lucky bastards.
Never mind that I was in Hueco just last weekend, or that I was out climbing in Boulder Canyon yesterday with my buddy Blake, he and I pouncing on one of the best 13a's I've ever been on, a route called Vasodialator.
Any time my friends get to go on a badass climbing trip to a destination that I've yet to visit, a twinge of jealousy, that ugliest of emotions, creeps into my heart. Today I'm left all alone in Boulder, and given that I wrecked myself on Thursday at the gym, and again yesterday in BoCan, I'm resting today with little to keep my occupied, save for Abaluba, coffee, and a burning need to finish some work for the Access Fund that I've largely put off for months. (And, I suppose, that by posting here, I continue to flake on my work. Christ. Sorry Joe, if you're reading this.)
Hell, reading that, I better go. But always remember, Voyeurs: I love you (unless you're out on some adventure that I'm missing. In that case, I'm the worst friend you've got).
Oh, quick note...I wish there was a sarcasm font. That'd be a much better way to communicate my preferred sense of humor in written form. I, of course, am psyched for my buddies, and hope they have a great trip out West. No matter what you readers do, I love all of you without a hint of hesitation.
The two of them went to California this long weekend to celebrate Dr. King's fantastic accomplishments. I know you're assuming that they're marching in San Fransisco in the name of peace and racial equality, but don't forget that deep down in the black pit of my soul, I'm a climbing bum. So are these two friends of mine. And as such, they're raising a black-gloved fist to the sky at the Jailhouse, a great winter climbing area about two hours east of San Jose. Those lucky bastards.
Never mind that I was in Hueco just last weekend, or that I was out climbing in Boulder Canyon yesterday with my buddy Blake, he and I pouncing on one of the best 13a's I've ever been on, a route called Vasodialator.
Any time my friends get to go on a badass climbing trip to a destination that I've yet to visit, a twinge of jealousy, that ugliest of emotions, creeps into my heart. Today I'm left all alone in Boulder, and given that I wrecked myself on Thursday at the gym, and again yesterday in BoCan, I'm resting today with little to keep my occupied, save for Abaluba, coffee, and a burning need to finish some work for the Access Fund that I've largely put off for months. (And, I suppose, that by posting here, I continue to flake on my work. Christ. Sorry Joe, if you're reading this.)
Hell, reading that, I better go. But always remember, Voyeurs: I love you (unless you're out on some adventure that I'm missing. In that case, I'm the worst friend you've got).
Oh, quick note...I wish there was a sarcasm font. That'd be a much better way to communicate my preferred sense of humor in written form. I, of course, am psyched for my buddies, and hope they have a great trip out West. No matter what you readers do, I love all of you without a hint of hesitation.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
West Mountain
Here on a mountain made solely of stone,
I lean back and let the sun hold my face.
This is a juxtaposed place of alternate energy
with an unspeakable richness once you learn its language.
A maze of stacked stones shimmering in the Texan sun.
Each house-sized block painted in subtle color and shaped by Dali.
Thoughtlessly touch one with bare fingers and risk blood.
Caress them properly, precisely, for a glimpse at euphoria.
Train your eyes on the distance of the North or East.
Off towards the tan and brown Guadalupe Mountains;
an expanse of plains and steep hills, empty of the obvious.
Teeming, though, with the dancing spirits of those long removed.
But look South and West, not so remote anymore!
A notch between hills is a window to the sprawl, that dearth of soul.
Lights glow above the concrete dander of El Paso.
Across the river, an even larger mass - the more violent, more crowded cousin.
Fort Bliss does its best to ironically rend you from West Mountain's solace.
America's Army unleashes ordinance, slowly chipping the horizon.
The cannons belch their hate in preparation for a paranoid delusion.
But we hunker down to let the din pass, awaiting the return of peace.
Refocus the gaze - come back to the boulders.
A ringtail cat, curious but skittish, dashes past after a pause.
In his wake remains only the pertinent grains of weathered sand
made impossibly hard after millions of years of seasoning.
Returning to a breeze that revolves around the immediate.
The clatter fades, the mind empties.
Fingers and toes and inches of movement,
the only actors standing as the curtain draws.
Two worlds in tense opposition,
the Expansive and the Intimate.
The brilliant, fiery orange of an Anasazi sunset
while below, the impenetrable black of the coming night.
Sunset viewed from West Mountain.
I lean back and let the sun hold my face.
This is a juxtaposed place of alternate energy
with an unspeakable richness once you learn its language.
A maze of stacked stones shimmering in the Texan sun.
Each house-sized block painted in subtle color and shaped by Dali.
Thoughtlessly touch one with bare fingers and risk blood.
Caress them properly, precisely, for a glimpse at euphoria.
Train your eyes on the distance of the North or East.
Off towards the tan and brown Guadalupe Mountains;
an expanse of plains and steep hills, empty of the obvious.
Teeming, though, with the dancing spirits of those long removed.
But look South and West, not so remote anymore!
A notch between hills is a window to the sprawl, that dearth of soul.
Lights glow above the concrete dander of El Paso.
Across the river, an even larger mass - the more violent, more crowded cousin.
Fort Bliss does its best to ironically rend you from West Mountain's solace.
America's Army unleashes ordinance, slowly chipping the horizon.
The cannons belch their hate in preparation for a paranoid delusion.
But we hunker down to let the din pass, awaiting the return of peace.
Refocus the gaze - come back to the boulders.
A ringtail cat, curious but skittish, dashes past after a pause.
In his wake remains only the pertinent grains of weathered sand
made impossibly hard after millions of years of seasoning.
Returning to a breeze that revolves around the immediate.
The clatter fades, the mind empties.
Fingers and toes and inches of movement,
the only actors standing as the curtain draws.
Two worlds in tense opposition,
the Expansive and the Intimate.
The brilliant, fiery orange of an Anasazi sunset
while below, the impenetrable black of the coming night.
Sunset viewed from West Mountain.
Friday, January 8, 2010
East Spur
My first day climbing in Hueco in four years was a blast. We milled around through the morning because Mike had a conference call, and he was to be our guide for the day. Hueco has some really stringent rules regarding entrance, and you've got to either take an orientation and stick to an area called "North Mountain", or hire a guide to show you the other areas, East Mountain, West Mountain, or East Spur. Mike is a commercial guide working for a licensed group, and he's nicely positioned to have nearly unfettered access to the boulders. The CO vagabonds aren't so lucky. Fortunately, Mike's our buddy so it wasn't like we were on some extortionist taxi ride in downtown Caracas.
Our half day coincided nicely with a need to wait out the morning's cold temps. It was freezing early today, and even if Mike's schedule would have been clear, there's no way we could have stuck with it in 35 degree air. At noon, we headed out towards the park and were greeted with sunshine and warming temperatures. The approach to East Spur is pretty quick, and we were on the boulders before anyone had too long to complain that their climbing trip wasn't filled with sufficient climbing.
We started out at The Gunks boulder, I assume named in homage to the great climbing area in upstate NY. This particular rock does sort of look like the climbing up near New Paltz. We warmed up on The Vulgarian, and quickly headed over to New Religion, a V7 I'd been on during my first trip to the area back in '06. I was with Nuno when I first saw this problem, but back then, I couldn't even do the first move. The good news is that I can now get off the ground, but unfortunately, I didn't finish it. Here are some photos of Kathy on and around New Religion.
While we were climbing on and around New Religion, we heard a whoop of joy from Mike. He'd sneaked away to get on his longstanding project, a v12 called Rumble in the Jungle. When I say longstanding, I mean it. Three years! He'd put in around 30 days trying this problem, and today, after working on it during the winter and dreaming about the moves in the summer, he sent. Way to go Mike!
After we slapped some hi-fives and generally basked in the warming rays of the sun and Mike's beaming excitement, we headed over to a climb called That High-Pro Glow. THPG is quite distinct from New Religion. Instead of pure power moves where you've got to link the large distance between descent holds, the type that typify No Religion, THPG relies on compression and squeezing around a blunt arete. After some really cool tension moves, you move up and out to a top out that's reasonably easy, but pretty damn high. As I was pulling up onto the top of the boulder after doing the problem, it was hard for my
mind not to wander back to my slip from this summer. If you remember, I was bouldering at Rocky Mountain National Park when I slipped on a very easy move and came crashing down from about 12 feet onto a big rock. I had to put that disaster out of my mind and focus, and thankfully I was safely finish the problem. Here are some pics from the start.
After That High-Pro Glow, we made a quick run back towards The Gunks where Mike and Greg tried Alf in a Blender, a curious little beast that's low to the ground and largely bereft of any decent holds. Whatever the grade, it's likely too easy. This thing looked rough! I was able to scope Greg pulling onto the climb through a really cool little tunnel in the surrounding rocks.
And finally, we ended the day on a problem called Uncut Yogi. This was a fantastic way to end things on East Spur. Uncut Yogi relies on good feet and awful pinches as you move up and out of a hole and into the fading daylight of the setting sun. No one was able to finish it today, but I don't think anyone felt slighted. We were all looking forward to heading back to the House of
Doom and cooking up some killer fajitas. I might bemoan the architectural disaster that is El Paso, but you'll never catch me complaining about the quality of their Mexican food. Fresh salsa, perfect avocados, spicy marinated chicken and warm tortillas are an excellent way to greet the night. Oh, and of course, a nice cold beer. We earned them today.
Speaking of House of Doom, I got Mike to tell me the story about how it got its name. I can't wait until I get the picture of the pentagram they had on the roof. Mike and his buddy Sam, not John as I'd originally reported, rented a house down here in El Paso four years ago with the purpose of hosting all of their climbing buddies on their road trips. It was a great excuse to get friends together, but quickly, things got out of hand. Mike would regularly wake up and walk into the living room only to find a strangers, and now and then one would be snorting crushed Ritalin off his coffee table. There were no numbers on the front of the house, but somehow, the local climbers kept coming to the house and making themselves right at home. I imagine the flaming, demonic pentagram on the roof helped draw them to the dwelling, and also lent the place its name. There's no sign of the devil on the place where we're staying now, and no strangers, either. I'm liking this mature version much more.
Tomorrow looks like a rest day, and then we're going to try to crush it on Sunday. I Hope I can post something tomorrow, and wish all my Voyeurs a great start to their respective weekends.
Our half day coincided nicely with a need to wait out the morning's cold temps. It was freezing early today, and even if Mike's schedule would have been clear, there's no way we could have stuck with it in 35 degree air. At noon, we headed out towards the park and were greeted with sunshine and warming temperatures. The approach to East Spur is pretty quick, and we were on the boulders before anyone had too long to complain that their climbing trip wasn't filled with sufficient climbing.
We started out at The Gunks boulder, I assume named in homage to the great climbing area in upstate NY. This particular rock does sort of look like the climbing up near New Paltz. We warmed up on The Vulgarian, and quickly headed over to New Religion, a V7 I'd been on during my first trip to the area back in '06. I was with Nuno when I first saw this problem, but back then, I couldn't even do the first move. The good news is that I can now get off the ground, but unfortunately, I didn't finish it. Here are some photos of Kathy on and around New Religion.
While we were climbing on and around New Religion, we heard a whoop of joy from Mike. He'd sneaked away to get on his longstanding project, a v12 called Rumble in the Jungle. When I say longstanding, I mean it. Three years! He'd put in around 30 days trying this problem, and today, after working on it during the winter and dreaming about the moves in the summer, he sent. Way to go Mike!
After we slapped some hi-fives and generally basked in the warming rays of the sun and Mike's beaming excitement, we headed over to a climb called That High-Pro Glow. THPG is quite distinct from New Religion. Instead of pure power moves where you've got to link the large distance between descent holds, the type that typify No Religion, THPG relies on compression and squeezing around a blunt arete. After some really cool tension moves, you move up and out to a top out that's reasonably easy, but pretty damn high. As I was pulling up onto the top of the boulder after doing the problem, it was hard for my
mind not to wander back to my slip from this summer. If you remember, I was bouldering at Rocky Mountain National Park when I slipped on a very easy move and came crashing down from about 12 feet onto a big rock. I had to put that disaster out of my mind and focus, and thankfully I was safely finish the problem. Here are some pics from the start.
After That High-Pro Glow, we made a quick run back towards The Gunks where Mike and Greg tried Alf in a Blender, a curious little beast that's low to the ground and largely bereft of any decent holds. Whatever the grade, it's likely too easy. This thing looked rough! I was able to scope Greg pulling onto the climb through a really cool little tunnel in the surrounding rocks.
And finally, we ended the day on a problem called Uncut Yogi. This was a fantastic way to end things on East Spur. Uncut Yogi relies on good feet and awful pinches as you move up and out of a hole and into the fading daylight of the setting sun. No one was able to finish it today, but I don't think anyone felt slighted. We were all looking forward to heading back to the House of
Doom and cooking up some killer fajitas. I might bemoan the architectural disaster that is El Paso, but you'll never catch me complaining about the quality of their Mexican food. Fresh salsa, perfect avocados, spicy marinated chicken and warm tortillas are an excellent way to greet the night. Oh, and of course, a nice cold beer. We earned them today.Speaking of House of Doom, I got Mike to tell me the story about how it got its name. I can't wait until I get the picture of the pentagram they had on the roof. Mike and his buddy Sam, not John as I'd originally reported, rented a house down here in El Paso four years ago with the purpose of hosting all of their climbing buddies on their road trips. It was a great excuse to get friends together, but quickly, things got out of hand. Mike would regularly wake up and walk into the living room only to find a strangers, and now and then one would be snorting crushed Ritalin off his coffee table. There were no numbers on the front of the house, but somehow, the local climbers kept coming to the house and making themselves right at home. I imagine the flaming, demonic pentagram on the roof helped draw them to the dwelling, and also lent the place its name. There's no sign of the devil on the place where we're staying now, and no strangers, either. I'm liking this mature version much more.
Tomorrow looks like a rest day, and then we're going to try to crush it on Sunday. I Hope I can post something tomorrow, and wish all my Voyeurs a great start to their respective weekends.
Hell Paso and the House of Doom
I rolled into El Paso last night after a solid 11 hour drive through the barren New Mexican desert. We took I25 southbound to the edge of Colorado, and then just after surmounting Raton Pass, hopped onto a two lane US Highway (84, which later turned into 54) to avoid the western jog that I25 takes in order to service the American ghetto that is Albuquerque.
Growing up out West, there's a certain comfort I feel when I'm on a deserted highway. Towns come in somewhat reliable 50 mile intervals, and between them, nothing. Or what seems like nothing at first glance. There are actually vast cattle ranches out here, herds of antelope, and a occasional lone coyote. Driving these roads reminds me of America's enormity. It feels the same when I drive up to Montana, or through Utah, or when I head to Jackson hole. There's a feeling that this country is a far cry from its East Coast cousin. I enjoyed my travels along the eastern seaboard, but the western wilds are my home, and I'll always find my soul here.
Keep in mind, my soul will never be found within the city limits of Hell Paso, TX. This urban waste is defined by strip malls and a complete lack of planning, the concrete blocks and decaying suburban development coming together as the antithesis to art. I suppose if you were on enough acid to kill a horse, you could see this cityscape as artistic, but that would largely be the production of your own hallucinations.
Mike is renting a room from a climber who lives up in Chicago, a man I've never meet and likely never will. Mr. Chicago fancies himself a climber, and as such, rented one of the thousand of abandoned homes in the area to act as a homebase for his occasional bouldering foray into the park. It seems like Mr. Chicago won't make it here in January, and I wonder if it wouldn't be more cost effective to just get a hotel if and when he does come to town.
We shouldn't complain, though. The Colorado trio has a roof over our heads, and Mike (and his pup Johnny Utah) are our only company here. Pleasant, as he is a familiar face. So we'll stay a few more days here at the House of Doom 4. The HOD came into being a few years back, I believe, when John Wallace moved to town. I'll try to get the story from Mike while we're out climbing today and report back.
Inside this incarnation of HOD, there is no furniture. We're essentially camping indoors, but I think it's fine for our standards. Especially given that the CO troop will only be here for a long weekend. More than anything, I marvel at Mike's ability to find comfort as he lives here for what will, in the end, turn out to be two plus months with little more than a card table and some empty rooms. I suppose that's why he has his whippet. It is a sure indication of his passion for climbing, though.
More when we're back from climbing. Hopefully with a few pics.
No more weeks without posting!
Growing up out West, there's a certain comfort I feel when I'm on a deserted highway. Towns come in somewhat reliable 50 mile intervals, and between them, nothing. Or what seems like nothing at first glance. There are actually vast cattle ranches out here, herds of antelope, and a occasional lone coyote. Driving these roads reminds me of America's enormity. It feels the same when I drive up to Montana, or through Utah, or when I head to Jackson hole. There's a feeling that this country is a far cry from its East Coast cousin. I enjoyed my travels along the eastern seaboard, but the western wilds are my home, and I'll always find my soul here.
Keep in mind, my soul will never be found within the city limits of Hell Paso, TX. This urban waste is defined by strip malls and a complete lack of planning, the concrete blocks and decaying suburban development coming together as the antithesis to art. I suppose if you were on enough acid to kill a horse, you could see this cityscape as artistic, but that would largely be the production of your own hallucinations.
Mike is renting a room from a climber who lives up in Chicago, a man I've never meet and likely never will. Mr. Chicago fancies himself a climber, and as such, rented one of the thousand of abandoned homes in the area to act as a homebase for his occasional bouldering foray into the park. It seems like Mr. Chicago won't make it here in January, and I wonder if it wouldn't be more cost effective to just get a hotel if and when he does come to town.
We shouldn't complain, though. The Colorado trio has a roof over our heads, and Mike (and his pup Johnny Utah) are our only company here. Pleasant, as he is a familiar face. So we'll stay a few more days here at the House of Doom 4. The HOD came into being a few years back, I believe, when John Wallace moved to town. I'll try to get the story from Mike while we're out climbing today and report back.
Inside this incarnation of HOD, there is no furniture. We're essentially camping indoors, but I think it's fine for our standards. Especially given that the CO troop will only be here for a long weekend. More than anything, I marvel at Mike's ability to find comfort as he lives here for what will, in the end, turn out to be two plus months with little more than a card table and some empty rooms. I suppose that's why he has his whippet. It is a sure indication of his passion for climbing, though.
More when we're back from climbing. Hopefully with a few pics.
No more weeks without posting!
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
NASA Lift Off, Bird Calls, and Visions of Hueco
Well, I owe you Voyeurs a big post. Sorry for the time off, and hopefully this bad-boy makes up for it.
You gotta understand, it was Christmas. Christ's goddamn birthday, for God's sake! How could I sully such an occasion with my sophomoric drivel? Plus, I celebrated the holiday with a reasonably substantial hangover. Hardly the state of mind that would allow me to weave another masterpiece. Sure, blogging's an art, right?
Enough chatter, let's get down to business. This post is about the indomitable psyche I've got brewing right now as I pack up and get ready to head down to Hueco Tanks State Park for the best bouldering in the world, located just outside of El Paso, Texas. Texas? And you thought I was crazy for my pilgrimage to Kentucky! It just so happens that some of the best climbing in the world isn't necessarily in a place where you'd expect to find it.
My buddy Greg is a teacher, but he splits time in his 7th grade science class with another instructor, and has a block of time free. My friend Kathy just finished her nursing program, and has some time to "study" before she takes her boards at the end of the month. And for me? I think we all know that my lifestyle allows for ample leisure and enjoyment. All in, we make three excited, available climbers. I called my buddy Mike Personick, The Legend when it comes to making a lifestyle work for climbing while still managing to retain a professional outlook, and he's currently in El Paso for the best weather window for Hueco. He and I shared The Highlander cabin at The Red, and it looks like he's going to let us crash his party once again.
The main mitigating factor muting our excitement is the bear of a drive that stands between Boulder and the border with our Mexican neighbors. 10+ hours in the car is going to be a pain in the ass, literally and figuratively, but given how much fun it is to climb down there, I think we'll all happily make the sacrifice. I've been there once before, way back in 2006. Actually, it was on this trip where I went to visit Nuno that I met Mikey P in the first place, and also ran into my friends Dan Mirsky, Mason Baker, and John Wallace for the first time. If you're really excited to climb, I suppose, you're drawn to Hueco during the winter like moths to a flame.
I've got several cards to play that should make the drive less onerous. First off, Spike Jonze's brother is going to keep me company. Spike is actually Adam Spiegel, and his brother, Sam, is a DJ with the moniker Squeak E. Clean. Squeak is also 1/2 of N.A.S.A., a collaboration with Brazilian DJ Zegon. N.A.S.A. stands for North America/South America, but the songs from the debut album "Spirit of Apollo" are pure Hollywood.
Putting to work their obviously deep connections to the entertainment world, N.A.S.A. attracts guest vocals from David Byrne, Kanye West, Tom Waits, Chuck D, George Clinton, members of Wu-Tang, and MIA, among others. The two DJ's then lay a spunky dance beat in the background. You've got to be kidding me with guest appearances like that! I've had "Spirit" on my ipod for a few days, and have been largely impressed with many of the album's 19 tracks.
I can't say that it gets me as excited to climb as, say, Pretty Lights, but I'd wear out my favorite local DJ if I only played him on my ipod when I climbed.
Additionally, I'm going to have a new uniform, literally, when I head down to El Paso. It seems like everyone has their favorite climbing pant/shirt combo, though I'm willing to concede that this opinion might be largely colored by the fact that I was at The Spot on Saturday and Movement on Sunday. Between the two indoor facilities, I saw plenty of young gym rats who gave me a ferocious sense of deja vu. There were literally a half dozen climbers that I saw both days who were dressed in the same getup. Honestly, dude? You don't even have a different color beenie to go with that familiar ragged tank top? Guess not.
Terrified of hypocrisy, I decided to expand my sartorial quiver before I became the next hipster V10 wannabe. And what better shirt than the official away jersey of my favorite soccer team, Real Madrid, complete with their playmaker Kaka's name and number on the back? Taking a variety of spellings, you'll hear the bird noise come from the belly of many a rock climber as they greet their fellow stone grapplers, while simultaneously alerting the world that a manorexic knave is fast approaching. I'm no exception. I love me some bird screeching. Now, I won't have to say a thing. I can just let 'em know when I whip off my hoodie, revealing spindly arms attached to an unlovable body.
It is important to emphasize just how neurotic I have become about this goddamn shirt. I alternate between wanting to live a life that would not necessarily be described as ascetic, but certainly less driven by materialistic want, and enjoying nice new things just like everyone else. I put off the decision to buy a new soccer jersey for a long time, though I'd constantly hoped that someone would just buy me one and save me the guilt. After the Christmas season, I finally caved and decided to get one, ordering it online from Real's official store.
I opted for the express shipping, figuring that if you're going to go for it, you might as well go all the way. Isn't that a nice way to describe impatience? UPS allowed me to track the package as it weaved its way towards my craving mitts here in CO. I updated the tracking information constantly. My spirits sank when it went from Manchester over to Cologne, Germany. Wrong way, Kaka! When it arrived in Philadelphia, I smiled knowing that we were within the borders of the proper country. Then to Louisville, UPS' hub, and finally to Commerce City, the hub for greater Denver's pollution and warehouses. Now it's out for delivery, and I'm gonna see it today.
I like to think that engaging my own material whims only sporadically is somehow better than wearing thin the magnetic strip of my Visa card in mere days. Especially given the thousands of gallons of jet fuel that were necessarily sacrificed to the deities in order for me to wear a number 8 on my back.
In spite of it all, I don't think I'm gonna rock Kaka at all times. Again, the hypocrisy. I'm envisioning a sort of special power suit, the type I'll bust out when I need the extra motivation that can only come in the form of a marketing scheme devised by a behemoth soccer club as they attempt to pay for their $90 million dollar Brazilian midfielder. And, if ever bereft of such need, I'll sport the kit on any given Thursday.
You gotta understand, it was Christmas. Christ's goddamn birthday, for God's sake! How could I sully such an occasion with my sophomoric drivel? Plus, I celebrated the holiday with a reasonably substantial hangover. Hardly the state of mind that would allow me to weave another masterpiece. Sure, blogging's an art, right?
Enough chatter, let's get down to business. This post is about the indomitable psyche I've got brewing right now as I pack up and get ready to head down to Hueco Tanks State Park for the best bouldering in the world, located just outside of El Paso, Texas. Texas? And you thought I was crazy for my pilgrimage to Kentucky! It just so happens that some of the best climbing in the world isn't necessarily in a place where you'd expect to find it.
My buddy Greg is a teacher, but he splits time in his 7th grade science class with another instructor, and has a block of time free. My friend Kathy just finished her nursing program, and has some time to "study" before she takes her boards at the end of the month. And for me? I think we all know that my lifestyle allows for ample leisure and enjoyment. All in, we make three excited, available climbers. I called my buddy Mike Personick, The Legend when it comes to making a lifestyle work for climbing while still managing to retain a professional outlook, and he's currently in El Paso for the best weather window for Hueco. He and I shared The Highlander cabin at The Red, and it looks like he's going to let us crash his party once again.
The main mitigating factor muting our excitement is the bear of a drive that stands between Boulder and the border with our Mexican neighbors. 10+ hours in the car is going to be a pain in the ass, literally and figuratively, but given how much fun it is to climb down there, I think we'll all happily make the sacrifice. I've been there once before, way back in 2006. Actually, it was on this trip where I went to visit Nuno that I met Mikey P in the first place, and also ran into my friends Dan Mirsky, Mason Baker, and John Wallace for the first time. If you're really excited to climb, I suppose, you're drawn to Hueco during the winter like moths to a flame.
I've got several cards to play that should make the drive less onerous. First off, Spike Jonze's brother is going to keep me company. Spike is actually Adam Spiegel, and his brother, Sam, is a DJ with the moniker Squeak E. Clean. Squeak is also 1/2 of N.A.S.A., a collaboration with Brazilian DJ Zegon. N.A.S.A. stands for North America/South America, but the songs from the debut album "Spirit of Apollo" are pure Hollywood.
Putting to work their obviously deep connections to the entertainment world, N.A.S.A. attracts guest vocals from David Byrne, Kanye West, Tom Waits, Chuck D, George Clinton, members of Wu-Tang, and MIA, among others. The two DJ's then lay a spunky dance beat in the background. You've got to be kidding me with guest appearances like that! I've had "Spirit" on my ipod for a few days, and have been largely impressed with many of the album's 19 tracks.
I can't say that it gets me as excited to climb as, say, Pretty Lights, but I'd wear out my favorite local DJ if I only played him on my ipod when I climbed.
Additionally, I'm going to have a new uniform, literally, when I head down to El Paso. It seems like everyone has their favorite climbing pant/shirt combo, though I'm willing to concede that this opinion might be largely colored by the fact that I was at The Spot on Saturday and Movement on Sunday. Between the two indoor facilities, I saw plenty of young gym rats who gave me a ferocious sense of deja vu. There were literally a half dozen climbers that I saw both days who were dressed in the same getup. Honestly, dude? You don't even have a different color beenie to go with that familiar ragged tank top? Guess not.
Terrified of hypocrisy, I decided to expand my sartorial quiver before I became the next hipster V10 wannabe. And what better shirt than the official away jersey of my favorite soccer team, Real Madrid, complete with their playmaker Kaka's name and number on the back? Taking a variety of spellings, you'll hear the bird noise come from the belly of many a rock climber as they greet their fellow stone grapplers, while simultaneously alerting the world that a manorexic knave is fast approaching. I'm no exception. I love me some bird screeching. Now, I won't have to say a thing. I can just let 'em know when I whip off my hoodie, revealing spindly arms attached to an unlovable body.
It is important to emphasize just how neurotic I have become about this goddamn shirt. I alternate between wanting to live a life that would not necessarily be described as ascetic, but certainly less driven by materialistic want, and enjoying nice new things just like everyone else. I put off the decision to buy a new soccer jersey for a long time, though I'd constantly hoped that someone would just buy me one and save me the guilt. After the Christmas season, I finally caved and decided to get one, ordering it online from Real's official store.
I opted for the express shipping, figuring that if you're going to go for it, you might as well go all the way. Isn't that a nice way to describe impatience? UPS allowed me to track the package as it weaved its way towards my craving mitts here in CO. I updated the tracking information constantly. My spirits sank when it went from Manchester over to Cologne, Germany. Wrong way, Kaka! When it arrived in Philadelphia, I smiled knowing that we were within the borders of the proper country. Then to Louisville, UPS' hub, and finally to Commerce City, the hub for greater Denver's pollution and warehouses. Now it's out for delivery, and I'm gonna see it today.
I like to think that engaging my own material whims only sporadically is somehow better than wearing thin the magnetic strip of my Visa card in mere days. Especially given the thousands of gallons of jet fuel that were necessarily sacrificed to the deities in order for me to wear a number 8 on my back.
In spite of it all, I don't think I'm gonna rock Kaka at all times. Again, the hypocrisy. I'm envisioning a sort of special power suit, the type I'll bust out when I need the extra motivation that can only come in the form of a marketing scheme devised by a behemoth soccer club as they attempt to pay for their $90 million dollar Brazilian midfielder. And, if ever bereft of such need, I'll sport the kit on any given Thursday.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)