Published

Like I do, I was fooling around on Mountain Project.  I spend an awful amount of time on that website, pouring over routes I'd like to do, checking in on gossip, and daydreaming about climbing.  I hate it and, simultaneously, I love it.  I hate it because I'm daydreaming about something abstract and external, and I end up wasting time where I could be more productive with the rest of my life.  But, I admit, that then I love it because I have a genuine connection with positive, proud memories in my brain that are inexorably linked to that one particular activity, climbing.  

And then I came across this story:

http://www.alpinist.com/doc/web11f/newswire-oops?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+alpinist%2FEFcn+%28Alpinist+Newswires%29

Basically, Alpinist screwed up their cover printing and, in explaining their embarrassment, offered the blemish covers for sale.  It piqued my interest because, frankly, I appreciate good writing, and certainly good writing about climbing.  As I get older, I'd like to be more supportive of things I really care about, and thought I should get them some money to further that cause of good prose with a mountain backdrop.  That's my ultimate goal for this site, instead of the daily correspondence that it typically becomes.  I was interested in the idea of buying one of the covers for my barren walls in my bedroom.  Walls that really need some adult ornamentation.  

The idea came to me that perhaps I'd frame an Alpinist cover and hang it.  Then, my mind wandered to the most recent issue of Rock and Ice that is on my table.  I figured I might put that one up, too, and have a little theme for my would-be art exhibition.  I opened the pages and, as any magazine does, a postcard begging for my subscription fell into my hand.  "It's a Big Deal!" the sales pitch read.  But my mind mistook the message, reading it for irony.  Andrew Bisharat was telling me it was ok to accept the fact that I was looking at that cover, thinking of framing it on my wall, and It's a Big Deal.  I published my first article.  

A write up of Pervertical Sanctuary isn't the most inspiring piece of climbing lore you'll ever read.  It's a short write up about a non-cutting edge adventure up a modern day moderate.  But to me, it's a story that connects my dad with climbing, and hopefully hints at my relationship to both he and the hills.  

I kind of like being proud of those achievements, and hanging them on the wall.  They'll look great next to my error-Alpinist, No 36.  

Familiar Faces

I'm not going to sugar coat it for all the people who were still in Boulder these last few days.  Rifle was perfect yesterday.  The breeze blew most of the remaining leaves from skeletal trees, drying fingers and cooling holds to a perfect crisp.  Sun was abundant, leaving the air warm enough to keep climbers in the shade, albeit in a puffy coat.  All of the hot, muggy days of summer lead up to the best time of the year, and we're enjoying its fleeting presence.  Pretty soon, the canyon will be cocooned in snow, this season finished.  That urgency, along with the sense that I'm just starting to return to the rhythmic groove of consistently climbing in one location, has me hoping to return for at least a few more days.

Dan belays (properly out of the road) at the Project Wall

I haven't been in the canyon this summer with the same consistency of the past.  Maybe I was more focused on other big road trips, but over these past few days, I could feel my disconnect with Rifle manifest in discomfort.  Instead of feeling totally locked in, even on the warm-ups that I've done hundreds of times, I was shaky and unsure of exactly where to go.  It wasn't a pleasant feeling.  With my hands and feet slightly out of sequence and on the wrong holds, my mind tended to wander to the absurd.  "Perhaps," I thought, "I've forgotten how to climb.  Maybe turning 30 means I've lost the required strength to climb hard routes here.  It's over."

Instead of the melodramatic delusions centered on my own demise, I have to remember that Rifle is just that way.  The cryptic beta required for upward progress is especially pronounced out there.  You've got to build a steady relationship with the stone.  All areas are like that.  The more time you climb at any one place, the better it feels.  While I was inefficiently quaking my way towards the anchors of each Rifle climb, I forgot that key lesson.  Even though I have been climbing consistently, I wasn't repeating my days at one specific location.

Projecting, the type of climbing best suited to Rifle, is, at least for me, the transformation of a route from impossible to effortless.  I miss that feeling of flowing through moves that were once terribly uncomfortable and difficult.  I love to climb with precise efficiency on a route that is just at the edge of possible.  Walking that fine line where a break in concentration means hanging from the rope requires so much time spent in methodical, dedicated practice.  I'm hoping that these past few days in Rifle will come together to allow me to find that flowstate on one more project before the season ends.    

Of course, the snow has to hold off, and I have to get back in order to test the theory.  If I can't return to Rifle, I'll hopefully take that same ritual to Zion before Thanksgiving.  Maybe I'll just have to content myself by commuting with Wally between other destinations in the American West.  If that's the case, I won't have immense repetition to fall back on, and will instead just have to rely on experience and balance as I battle the self doubt that will inevitably creep in.  No matter the situation, climbing is always a challenge.  That's why it's so incredibly rewarding.    

Team PatagoNeon

Valley Pics

I'd like to post a few good pictures from the last week or so.

Basically, we had a bit of a storm blow through Yosemite last week and shut things down for a while.  In the interim, the crew, now swollen to include the Brothers Kauffman, drove down to Bishop in search of sun and boulders.  We found some of the former, and lots of the latter.

After Tioga reopened, we headed back towards Yosemite and have been here for the past few days.  Things are looking a little rainy once again, so Josh and I are going to have to see what makes the most sense for the last bit of the trip.

And now, more pics (most by Neil Kauffman of Planet Kauffman...

Josh IS Ironman

Josh at Tioga

Waiting out snow in between tries

Sunset at The Happy Boulders

The striking Tioga Cliff

Snowy Sierra above the Buttermilks

Bishop after the snow

A very fine start

You know how I can tell I'm in California?  My back is killing me.  The final day in the car apparently didn't sit too well, and I've been stretching and doing yoga like a madman to try to remedy this annoyance. It hasn't kept me from climbing and hiking around, but I'm beginning to take all that "30 and over the hill" talk as the truth.  Damn it.

As for the start of this little road trip, Josh and I got things going in Rifle.  I was happy to have the chance to get back into the canyon and send one final project before it gets too cold, and also for the opportunity to hang with friends before a few weeks away.  The weather in Rifle was perfect, and I was sad to say goodbye.  Fortunately for me, my buddy Jesse was out for the weekend and was able to resupply me after a very poor packing job.  I'd been so distracted by the demands of getting everything squared away before I left that I opened my bag and saw only two pairs of pants for a three week trip.  Jesse swung by my place and grabbed a few more items, and I'm hugely grateful.

Sunset and Van

Chilling under the Hulk

After that hiccup, Josh and I got the drive underway in earnest and have since arrived in California.  We promptly met up with our friends, brothers Joel and Neil Kauffman.  These crushers first entered my radar this spring while I spent some time in Indian Creek, and I am happy to be in their presence again.  Especially since our first climbing mission out here has been treating the Incredible Hulk like our backyard crag.  This alpine beauty is a stunning granite spire in the Eastern Sierra.  I can tell you that Positive Vibrations lives up to the hype, and that going ground up on The Venturi Effect is a tall order.  Too tall for me, in fact.

The Hulk

Otherwise, Josh and I survived getting pulled over in Ely, Nevada, a pretty massive detour out of town (too flustered by our police encounter, we took 50 instead of 6, and drove a few miles out of the way), and the most insane sunset of my life.  I hope these pics suffice.

Josh eyes the raps

Our bivy cave

The weather is looking a little hot in The Valley, so I just came down into town on a work/life/resupply mission before heading back to The Hulk tomorrow for another few days.  More to follow when we get back out.    

Back to the Ditch

Here we go.  Josh and I are setting out sights westward once again.  Our goals are similar to the last time he and I drove into Yosemite.  We would love to get back up and climb on El Cap, the greatest stone other than that of Movement Climbing and Fitness.  Also, there are several long free routes scattered on other formations that we've got our eyes on.  I'm hoping to meet up with Nuno-Miguel, my longtime buddy who's now in the Bay Area, for some bouldering, too.  He's not the only friend who is slated to be out there, as multiple other people I've talked to have plans for a Valley autumn, as well.

The Diamond

Work projects have me running a little ragged lately, and I'm excited for some downtime.  I'm sure I'll still have the Blackberry in view more than I want, and check emails with nervous glances, but I'm laying some chips on the idea that once I break free from Denver/Boulder's gravity, I'll be able to melt into the road trip rhythm.  There is something so special about the chance to conjure up big goals, and take the time required to accomplish them.  I'm quite excited. 

That said, I've been battling a bit of my own expectations for this trip.  With the success we had on The Salathe Wall last year, I'm trying to remain focused on this year's challenges, and allow that it's still going to be intimidating to be back up on such huge walls.  It's fun to watch my brain swing from fear to fanatical excitement when I think about the climbing in what's unquestionably Mecca for rock climbers.  Above all, I'm really excited to have the support of my girlfriend while I'm away.  Beyond that, knowing that Josh and I make a great team is inspiring confidence in me.

He and I were just up on The Diamond for a big, car-to-car push up the Yellow Wall.  It was my second trip up to that iconic face of Long's Peak, after last year's voyage up Pervertical Sanctuary with Alex Macpherson.  Josh and I added some difficulties by avoiding the bivy at the base, and taking only one rope onto the face, thereby committing ourselves to a summit push in lieu of any optional rappels back down the face.  The added comfort of being somewhere familiar limited the intimidation a bit.  I'm hoping that this second trip to Yosemite is similar in that regard.  It's still going to blow my mind, without a doubt.  I'm hoping, however, that I can enjoy the experience with a little less anxiety than I felt the first time I dropped into "the ditch."

Josh nearing the finish to the North Chimney

I'm going to try to keep the blog updated while I'm out in California.  Please stay tuned.  I'm very excited for my new camera, and the chance to post some better pictures for your viewing pleasure.  One of the nice things about going out to Yosemite is that this national park's management plan is catered to comfort.  There are plenty of places to catch a wireless signal, plug in the old computer, and spray endlessly to the folks back home.  I don't want to paint a totally plush picture...there are still bears roaming the valley, and there aren't escalators to the top of any rocks (yet).  Adventure hasn't been completely eliminated, thankfully.


So Wally is packed up, my work is as done as it can be for the moment, and we're setting sail.  Wish us luck!

30 aught six

Chris Kalous, indisputable hardman and an under the radar legend, got so motivated by Indian Creek's perfect splitter cracks (see photo above) that he did 40 pitches there on his 40th birthday.  Jesus.  Chris sits on the board of a great local climbing organization, Friends of Indian Creek. They help steward the area I hold so dear to my heart.  Maybe their bylaws require him to check out every route on Donnelly Canyon, Battle of the Bulge, and Supercrack Buttress, but when he told me about his exploits while he was jumping my car's dead battery in the parking lot, I was blown away.  This guy's a freaking Ninja.

I toyed with the idea of doing something similarly themed.  It was nice to be younger on this occasion, as even thirty pitches sounded improbable.  How the hell did Chris do 40?  Fortunately for me, my buddy Andrew was having his 30th a few weeks before mine, and he was planning on 30 routes in Rifle.  Problem solved.  But then I realized I had a new problem.  What was I gonna do?

If I'm totally honest, six was probably a more realistic number for me.  Six was going to allow me to hang out, enjoy some lazy time with friends cooking breakfast, tag some pitches, and get back for a family dinner at some cabins we'd rented.  Perfect.  I've been trying to find balance in my life recently, and this weekend I might have nailed it.

Two incredible gifts that I got this weekend, and I've got to share.

My mom hooked it up with a much more advanced camera than I'd previously had, and I'm really excited to share some better photos/videos in the future.

Julia made a book with essentially 30 years worth of pictures, stories and input from the people closest to me in my life.  Thank you.  That shows perfectly why I had to have a 30.06 birthday.

By the way, I have no idea who the woman is in the bottom right.  She was friendly, dinner was family style, and I'd been drinking.  I demanded her presence in the photo.

Squamish

With a flight into Seattle and a return from Vancouver, I was poised for some great
granite climbing in the Northwest. That it was August helped to slightly assuage
my fear that I’d be rained out, but I threw the rain jacket in the pack nonetheless. A
quick glance at the forecast just before takeoff left me optimistic. 70’s and sun for
as far as NOAA could see. As the wheels on the plane went up, those inside my head
started turning. Squamish was the eventual goal, but I’d hopefully sample some of
Washington’s finest before I crossed the border.

I’ve said for a long time that I’d love to get a trip to Index and Squamish, and almost
by accident, it came together this year. I’m lucky to have a bunch of friends with
connections in the area, and the first to help me along the way was Josh’s cordially
cynical uncle named Mark. Josh and I coordinated our flights into SeaTac and Mark
met us at the airport. From then on, he and his wife were fantastic hosts, going so
far as to loan us a truck (sporting a bumper sticker, shaped exactly like the yellow
soldier support ribbons, that says “Just pretend it’s all OK!” in red, white, and blue)
so we could connect the cragging dots.

Another friend, Jonah, also got Josh and me pointed on the right track when it came
to additional climbing options in the area. Over beers, he gave us topos, directions,
gate codes, and enough options to leave my head spinning.

We spent some time clipping bolts at the steep and shady Newhalem and Little Sy,
and then sweated it out placing the widgets on the Lower Town Wall in Index. I’ve
gotten to be a conditionSissy in Colorado, and the blazing sun of the final day in The
States left me wilted. From there, we headed across the border and aimed Mark’s
truck for Squamish.

Expectations are often the source of sadness, but that didn’t stop me from assuming
Squamish was a Yosemite of the North. After having been there, I realize it’s an
unfair analogy. First of all, nothing is going to compare to the mix of intimidation
and inspiration deep in your guts when you first see The Capitan. But more
positively, Squamish has stickier rock, a view of Howe Sound that is out of this
world, and The Kingdom of Pete-oria.

The buddy luck held when Peter (or, more appropriately, his wife Tanis) offered
up some space in their house for a week of dirtbag hosting. Poor suckers. We tried
to do our best with dishwashing, cooking, and flowers. Nothing could salvage the
fact that the humid, coastal air never let my shoes dry out. I fear the stink may have
permanently embedded into their walls. It’ll only be fair when Pete flies down to
the USA and demands my van as in-kind repayment.

From Pete’s kitchen, you can saunter out to the back deck, coffee in hand, and spy
the lines on The Chief’s North Walls. A blooming garden begs to be eaten, and
the bees are happily gathering their nectar for the coming honey harvest. If there
weren’t rules against such a thing, I’d have tried to claim permanent residence.

Instead of working on my immigration status, Josh and I went climbing. Shocker,
no? We split our time between some sport climbing, really good mixed climbing,
and a few classic long routes. We even managed to get in a linkup of Freeway and
The Grand Wall for a full, 20-pitch day that culminated in Pete meeting us at the top
with a bottle of water and a few beers. Like I said, I’ve got some great buddies.

And if you care to see 2:00 of us talking about The Grand Wall from the base of The Split Pillar, then here you go:

Paper Stacks and the Pain of Van Maintenance

When Wally the Sprinter Van is launching up mountain passes like some sort of mobile dirtbag home turned rocket ship, I'll never complain.  The turbo spools up, and the pavement under the tires turns to tar.  I've been out to Rifle a bunch lately, and that feeling of watching Vail Pass morph into a mere speed bump is especially nice when I compare it to the slow churn of my snail paced Subaru.

Recently, I was driving Wally when I realized that my foot was on the floor, and the speedometer still read a paltry 62 MPH.  WTF?  Sprint, Sprinter!  No dice.  I called the mechanic, and braced myself for some potential bad news.

The call came back from my trusty folks at Mancinelli's.  The turbo had essentially developed a faulty On/Off switch, and that there was no way to fix it other than to replace the entire turbo.  The part itself was a blinding $1,700.  Even worse, Mancinelli's told me that it was totally unavailable because of backordering.  Ouch.

I immediately called around to try to find an alternative to the declaration that my space ship had been turned into the tortoise.  I also batted around the idea that there had been some catastrophic misdiagnosis.  The internet is full of rumor and innuendo, and several posts on SprinterSourceDotCom told me that a muffler in the system, known as the Resonator, was suspect and had a tendency to die.  Perhaps that was the problem?  It would only cost $200 or so to fix, so I crossed my fingers and called the mechanic back.  Were they sure that it wasn't the resonator?  "100% positive."  Damn.

After a bunch of phone calls and web searches, I managed to find a new, replacement turbo down in Texas, and had it shipped to my mechanic.  They installed the new part, and at the same time, replaced that questionable Resonator, just in case.

Now, I'm back to flying up the mountain passes, perhaps even quicker given the lighter wallet I've been carrying around.  The speed increase came just in time, because I've got trips up to Jackson Hole and, later this fall, Yosemite.  After getting spoiled by the relative luxury of climbing trips based from the comfort of Wally, I couldn't bear the thought of a regression to Subaru road trips.  That's inflation, in a nutshell.  My expectations grew, and left me without even a moment of doubt about fixing the problem.  Anything to get me back in the van.

In between those trips to Wyoming and California, I'm headed up to Index and Squamish to team up with Josh and Jesse for some training camp preparation that will take the form of incredible cragging at some of the best locations in the world.  Lucky me.  Classes at that renowned Finkelstein School of Granite have been in recess for a while now, but I've been trying to stay fit and focused with a steady diet of big days in Rifle.  Lapping the same sport routes I've got dialed isn't the same as onsighting the unfamiliar granite trad line, but it's better than sitting on the couch.  I'm hoping that the Index/Squamish days get me fully prepared for that return to the Valley.

At least I know I'll be riding in style when I get there.

Slaying Dragons in CB

Just south of Crested Butte, an 8-foot tall medieval knight is battling a dragon. The
knight’s suit of armor is straight out of a museum. Broadsword, helmet, shield,
breastplate, gauntlets. It’s everything that any self-respecting knight would own,
and the same exact outfit that any boy would cherish. The whole knight is welded
together from bits of chromed steel. The dragon’s silver scales reflect the sunlight
in blinding menace while his claws sink into green grass and his fangs threaten the
pain.

The Elk Mountains, the withering range between Aspen and Crested Butte, are as
dramatic as they are beautiful. Crested Butte sits in a bit of a cirque beneath The
Elks, and the highest peaks frame the skyline. These American Alps provide backup
just in case the knight gets past the beast. He’s in for a long day, no matter what.

Staring at this sculpture, I tried to figure out which explanation I preferred. On
one hand, I think about the early settlers who must have seen this alpine valley
during summer and been convinced that they’d stumbled into the most beautiful
stretch of river valley that Colorado has to offer. They then must have felt like the
surrounding terrain was as dangerous as any flying dinosaur with fangs, claws, and
an impenetrable hide.

Then again, the fight is happening just outside of a school. To be a preschooler who
can look out the window and see his picture books come to life would be incredible.
Even a wild childhood imagination would have a hard time duplicating the spectacle
in the front yard.

As a kid, I imagined adventure around every corner. If it wasn’t in the form of a
dragon, I was dreaming up guerilla missions in the woods behind my neighbors’
homes, make-believe fights with roving Indians, and athletic glory appropriately
scaled down to my skinny white body: dunking on a 7-foot basket ball hoop.
Whatever the activity, I was free from the cares that start to permeate adulthood.
My reality was bound only by my creativity and desire to believe it.

The Skyland Boulders sit on the shoulder of Mt. Crested Butte, and overlook the
knight, dragon, and whole town of CB. If you want a beautiful place to hang out
for the day and grab some granite, it’s hard to beat Skyland. There aren’t a ton of
boulders, but they are interspersed in a huge grove of aspen trees on a flat bench of
hillside that provides nice landings for these few looming boulders.

The walk through the trees passes by several wildly intimidating rock faces.
Julia and I pulled onto some of the problems in between a picnic lunch and a
daydreaming session spent staring at the cirrus sky. When we walked into a
clearing, I realized that the preschool wasn’t the only place where kids were using
their imaginations to invent a vivid game. Many of the smaller stones had been

turned into makeshift forts. Some of the dead, fallen aspens had been dragged into
formation, and several teepees dotted the perimeter of the clearing. No one else
was there, but I could almost hear the squealing cries of happy kids playing make-
believe.

Further on, I found an impressive boulder that captured my imagination, and I
saddled up for a hot session on sun soaked stone. Cooler air would have made
the grips more tenable, but instead, I just had to ignore the facts and shoot
from my inexhaustible Winchester rifle against some angry Sioux. Once I realized
that fun was the name of the game, just as it’s always been, I settled into a game of
convincing myself that my next mission involved a boulder problem. I was there to
enjoy my day and revel in the beauty of being alive, content to play a game where
I made the rules. I could play like a kid, and let my imagination run wild. Where’s
your dragon?

The Right Amount of Gong Show

The Rocker Block is the famed feature on Moonlight Buttress that marks the
beginning of the hard climbing. Below this pinnacle, a perch the size of a mere
café table, are 400 feet of relatively tame climbing above another sweeping 200-
foot drop to the Virgin River. As I stood on The Block, I looked directly into the
wildly intimidating crux corner above. The small rack of micro cams was perfectly
appropriate if I wanted to send, but it still felt wildly insufficient as protection
against the looming layback corner above. I knew some of the worst jams, even
stuffed to the hilt, would leave my fingernails still partially visible. The four
additional pitches of 5.12, each invisibly stacked above the crux, weighed on me. I
thought I would need to sit down. It even occurred to me that I might burst into
tears.

Over the past year, I’ve been trying to push my climbing limits. I want to be safe and
reasonable, but those longer, more demanding routes now seem like pressing goals.
My attempt at freeing Moonlight Buttress in May was the most recent expression of
this bold hope. The experience left me utterly in awe. While I was standing below
the crux, my perspective shifted from first person to third. It seemed like I was
watching my life as an outside observer, and it made me so happy. Sure, there are
people who climb WAY harder. But comparison to those with more isn’t the point.
I’ve found what works for me. I’ve got the right amount of Gong Show in my life, and
the results have left me feeling in balance, and motivated for more.

I’m talking about a Gong Show of the climbing variety. The Show takes many forms
- the guy on his cell phone losing his shit in the Starbucks line, for example, but
that’s not exactly what I’m talking about. The Gong Show in climbing, at least according to my definition, is the Zone of Proximal Development. These are routes at the limit of my personal abilities. I’ve got to completely seduce with my own wandering mind, but in even attempting to
do so, I’ll find success. I’m finding so much value in the routes, pitches, or trips that
are as much about quality climbing as they are about pushing these limits. Some refer to this sensation as engaging the enemy. As much a battle cry, it’s a plea to sit with the
inherent discomfort of the moment, while allowing everything else to fade into the
ether.

When I was standing on The Rocker Block, it occurred to me that I was fully in my
own Gong Show. I was hanging out on what Mike Pennings calls “the best free climb
in the world.” Mike has crushed more standard bearing climbing than just about
anyone, and a route that draws praise from a man who has sent the entire planet is
good enough for me. It wasn’t about the quality of the pitches (though many of
them are so good that they define the "Q" word) so much as it was about the power
of the place and the magnitude of the mission. I felt tiny, but at the same time
confident that if I could just keep my shit together and rely on lessons previously learned,
I’d be fine.

I didn’t free the Moonlight on my first attempt. In fact, I fell on several pitches.
Before I had a second chance, Zion’s torrential spring rains chased me out of the
soggy campground and out towards my flight home from Vegas. That’s life. I’d like
to get an opportunity to get back and try again, but who knows? At least I know
that I tried. Sure, I took a bit of a beating. I fell, I took. Everyone wants to believe
that they’ll send every route, on-sight and without the slightest hesitation. If that’s
indeed the goal, you’ll never fall, you’ll never fail, and you’ll never grow. You learn
the greatest lessons when the routes you attempt push you back. When they’re just
hard enough to leave your mind expanded in time for the descent, you’ve got the
right amount of Gong Show.

The Issue to Which I'm Speaking

Is none other than The Buttress made of Moonlight.  Zion's (and perhaps any sandstone climbing destination) finest free route.  Good.  Lord. 

If you're into climbing what will feel like miles of ridiculous finger cracks on perfect red sandstone, perched high above the Virgin River, then this route is for you.  Starting with a bit of scruffy ledge climbing, the route quickly turns to pitch after pitch of perfection.  Stacked on top of one another are: A crazy 5.11 bolted traverse, a hard boulder problem (The Rocker Blocker) and long perfect corner, a 5.12+ tips layback crux corner, another 5.12 flare, an 11++ finger crack that has perfect finger locks and small features on the face for your feet, a 5.12 finger crack splitter with no feet, and "The Nutting Pitch," also 5.12.  Are you fucking kidding me? 

Jesse Huey and I were up on the route yesterday trying to send it.  I was trying to onsight, and Jesse was back after a few other attempts in previous years.  The climbing has always been just slightly out of reach for him, with one or two falls keeping him from freeing the route.  Needless to say, he was super motivated and excited.  So much so that our 4 AM wake up didn't faze him, and we had coffee and loud music going by 4:15. 

I was doing pretty well, onsighting the route up until The Rocker Blocker.  The weight of the knowledge of what lay ahead of me probably took its toll, and I fell onto a bolt at the first really hard bit.  Oh well.  The onsight was blown, but we were still really psyched and going well.  I lowered back to the belay and then, after a brief rest and a gaze out onto the river valley below, started climbing and fired the pitch.  I brought Jesse up to my hanging belay, eying the crux just above.
 
From the belay, I started leading into the thin, hard locks, and fell again as it stated to get desperate.  Damn!  I knew Jesse really had his eye on the tips corner, as it was one of the two pitches that he'd yet to free.  I turned over the sharp end, allowing him to have a go just as it was going into the sun.  We knew it was supposed to be hot that day - forecasts called for near 90 degree temps and baking sun - so we'd have to hustle before things got unbearable.  Jesse took off and was CRUSHING.  He stuffed in the new blue Metolius master cam I'd just bought especially for this pitch, and kept climbing towards easier terrain.  The leader needs to place two cams above that little blue piece before they can squirm into a mediocre rest at a wider part of the crack, and as he went to put in the first, the ultra technical smearing feet were a little too warm.  His foot slipped as he was putting in the cam and it didn't go exactly where he wanted.

"You've got it, keep breathing!" I encouraged from about 30 feet below.  I could feel how badly he wanted to send the pitch, and was fully pulling for my buddy.  Jesse, a mountain beast who is one of my most dialed, strongest trad-partners, (and also half man-half Yeti, thus necessitating the nickname Jyeti) clipped the tiny cam at his waist and punched it.  Just as he pulled towards the flare, he slipped again but couldn't recover.  Zing!  Down he came.  The poorly placed cam pulled, sending tiny chips of rock down on my just as his weight came onto the new Metolius.  It held just fine, but the extra distance of the fall brought him all the way back to the belay.  Holy shit!  We high-fived.  Now we're going for it! 

Jesse pulled back up and finished the pitch like a champ, and I toproped up to his belay, also falling and suffering in the heat.  We raced up the flare above as fast as possible, taking shelter on a ledge under meager shirts, and wedging ourselves into whatever shade the rock would provide.  After about an hour, the sun left the face and we continued climbing, the 3 liters we'd brought in a pack proving to be insufficient as the hydration reservoir began to gargle with the air in the hose. 

We cruised up the first bit of finger splitter, but then the wheels kind of fell off.  Both of us were cramping pretty badly, and the last two 5.12 pitches felt like they might have been 5.14.  It was continuously daunting to realize that the route had been Honnold-pointed (free soloed) while we oozed out of tips locks with 1,000 feet of air below our puckered asses. 

We topped out, a bit defeated and a lot tired, but never demoralized.  Jyeti and I plan to rap back in tomorrow and stash a little water, rehearse some crux beta, and prepare for another shot on Tuesday, weather permitting.  There is a bit of a storm coming through, so at least the sun won't be nearly as oppressive.  By stashing the water, we'll be able to climb without any weight on the second's back, and hopefully pull off a team free ascent.  If it doesn't work...who cares?  We're going to try as hard as we can, have a ton of fun, and enjoy one of the best routes either of us has done.  Good times.  (We'll try to remember to bring a camera on the rap mission, and post some pics.)

I realize that freeing the route matters less than doing what I love to do, in a beautiful place with a good friend.  I am constantly reminded about how lucky I am and how my life is so full of love, and hanging out on the Moonlight was just another manifestation of that good fortune.  Major thanks to all the good friends in my life who provide me with a seemingly inexhaustible supply of laughs, insight, support and love. 


Speaking of...a MAJOR Happy Mother's Day to Mama Suze.  My Ma has always been an awesome supporter of all my adventures, and I can't say thanks enough.  I love ya, Mom.  And I'll be careful up there.  Abaluba!

Three Scoops of Desert

Affect vs. Effect.  Their, there, and they're.  English can get tough, you know?

Another doozy is the age-old confusion over desert/dessert.  Which one is which?  They'll tell you in school that all kids want TWO desserts, and the letter "S" appears twice in a row in the word describing that sweet treat.  Phooey.  I salivate for the unforgiving environs of the desert (one S) as much as any piece of chocolate cake.

Want photo proof?  Check out these images of me on Camping Under the Influence and End of Insanity, shot by Chris Brown of Highexposures.com.

This was actually my third trip of the season out to Indian Creek.  In addition to Chris, I was out with the brothers Joel and Neil Kauffman, Half man/Half Yeti Jesse Huey, and old faithful...Fosh Jinkel.  These three trips have me feeling reasonably honed on the splitter Wingate sandstone, and I'm looking forward to putting the refined jamming abilities to the test on rock that requires a little more thought and a little less thug.  Even so, I've had a great time this Spring out in The Desert.

Some of that enjoyment has to come from familiarity.  Even back in college, we were making the pilgrimage from Boulder to the canyon south of Moab.  Class would end (or at least we made the executive decision to scrap any remaining classes for the week) on Thursday, and with the car packed, we'd make it to camp just a few hours after dark.  Those days, tents were pitched just off the paved road and under the shadow of the Supercrack Buttress.  No more.  Camping is understandably restricted, and with so many climbers wandering around, noses buried in Bloom's guidebook hoping to unearth the next Incredible Hand Crack, we're moving farther and farther down the road in search of more privacy.

We're also searching out some different lines and cliffs that are a little more remote than the typical fare above the now paved parking lot.  Where a scraped bumper used to be nearly guaranteed, now 80 cars can glide to a stop on tarmac.  I guess as we evolve as climbers, the area evolves as well.

So while you can't put the genie back in the bottle, or the Indian back in Indian Creek, at least you can try to treat it with respect, and enjoy the time spent in this magical place.  A Spring well spent.  

Springboard to Excellence

Voyeurs!  After much time away, I'm imbued once again with some fine story fodder.  This journey winds westward, past the Colorado Plateau and Utah's vibrantly painted Swell.  I-70's serpentine tarmac paints a black strip across some of the most amazing scenery in America, and if you care to pay attention to vaulted sandstone and endless sky, you might remember that landscape until your death.  Old Edward Abbey wasn't wrong, and so pining for our lives to mirror his novels, Seth Finkelstein and I  made tracks.  Officially, the final destination was Las Vegas.  The worst city in America.  The sprawling arm pit of vapid spec-builds.  The mile after mile of Geography of Nowhere, manifest.  Ultimately, though, Vegas is the only real launching point to Red Rocks National Conservation Area.  And that, my friends, is vere ve do zee freiklettern.

Rainbow Mountain.  Levitation climbs the back side of this peak.

Like any good voyage with a Brother Finkel, our space ship was disguised as a van.  This time, Starship Enterprise was Seth's loaded Ford Sportsmobile, a lovely van with a minor drinking problem when compared to Wally's diesel efficiency.  Plush captain's chairs and panoramic windows allowed us to take in that Utah scenery en-route to Nevada.  Somewhere between Richfield and St. George, I realized that my plans for 2011's climbing achievements had started in earnest.  I'm looking forward to tons of sends and adventures this year, and as we blasted off towards our sandstone objectives of the week, the trip was dubbed the "Springboard to Excellence."   It might look better as a slogan for an elementary school, but I see no reason to ignore the fact that the Red Rocks trip, complete with sun and warm air, was a perfect start to 2011's campaign.

Hatch a Plan

Even in the heart of winter, you still get the hatch. Sure, they're just midges, but they're bugs just the same. Wading out into the waters of the South Platte, beneath towering granite faces, you realize that the South Platte valley is one of the prettiest places in Colorado, and it offers an amazing playground for the hopeful angler, and the aspiring granite master. The fly rod partners with the trad rack. Heaven!

I was just out on Sunday with my great friend Dave, and we took advantage of the sunny day in the mid 40's. Dave had been down to that particular stretch of gold medal trout stream enough times to feel confident with the fly rod, and he talked me into busting out of bed at some ungodly hour to head south in the hopes of coaxing fish to bite out tiny flies dangling off nearly invisible tippet. One of the big drawbacks of fishing in the heart of winter is that all life slows down, and most of the bugs are tiny. The fish seek deeper water to conserve energy, and the action on the water can be slow. Even so, the scenery is breathtaking, and with patience, there are still plenty of fish to be had. Now that I've been there, I cannot wait to get back.

I started out the day with a bang, landing a beautiful, dark brown on my 3rd cast. Sadly for me, that was about the end of the glamor. The rest of the day was spent largely breaking off entire rigs of 7X (width of a human hair) line and multiple flies. I think all told, I lost at least a dozen. I found some solace in the fact that Dave was catching fish, and that I must have been gaining practice that would hopefully pay later dividends.

Talking about how much fun we'd had while we were driving back to Boulder, I got inspired to return for more time on the river, with bookends of climbing to augment the fun. Lately, I've been on a real kick for trad climbs and perfect crack pitches, and the Turkey Rocks area just down the road from where we fished is some of the best in the state. Expect to find me down there with other angler/tradsters soon. With the van, I'm hoping for some trips that extend for at least 4 days.

New Year, New Plans, and a Triple X rated goal

Weird. I'd been in this odd funk for the past couple of weeks, battling this whole malaise of physical sickness, impatience, and dissatisfaction with where I was at the moment. It's weird to think of life's natural rhythm sending you sideways with little control of the situation, but for a while, I'd certainly not been the same self I remember being from the past year. I needed to shape up, make some plans, remember what's right, and get out of the ditch. If I left it up to coincidence and chance, I could be bummed out for months!

Some of the main reasons I felt like 2010 was so successful were because I'd been focused on building a relationship with Julia, climbing tons of cool, inspiring, and intimidating routes, and trying to avoid wasting much time. When I was working, I'd focus on work. I wanted to ask the smartest questions possible, and give time to thought about what I could do to best utilize my clients' time (and thereby money). I was trying to get better in my career.

When I wasn't billing hours, I tried to either spend the time with JK with the greatest presence of mind possible, or get out and climb as hard as I could imagine. I found a place where I could tell my girlfriend that I loved her while not giving up a dream to climb The Capitan, spent a month in the Red, sent more hard sport routes, and generally have a blast. I was getting everything finished that I wanted, and still working, making money, and advancing things with clients.

At the start of 2010, I was letting things get routine with Julia, having trouble getting motivated by outdoor climbing projects, and in a slow patch with work. I was monitoring Rights-of-Way, but not working on new projects. Then I got the flu, and totally lost patience. I wasn't getting stuff done regarding work with a new client on a project I'd hoped to court, the sky was gray and after recently finishing The Bone Collector, had nothing new to motivate me to get outside.

The Bone Collector

I spent four days working on a route called The Bone Collector this winter, and I'm proud to report that I did it on Saturday. The sustained finger crack is down at Golden's Quarry Wall, just around the corner from where I started to climb on my first top ropes and timid leads. The wall is special to me in that it's just behind my father's house, on a large swath of public parkland. The crag is so close to "home" that I think of it as a kind of magic back yard. I had a similar realization when I was climbing at Muir Valley this fall - that I was literally on someone's private, back yard playground. Golden is mine, even if plenty of people are ashamed to admit they were climbing there - the grades too easy and the gumbies oppressively abundant.

The good news is that we're all beginners, from time to time. Even after we've triumphantly declared ourselves elite experts. I sure felt like a nervous neophyte at times as I went through the process of learning how to climb this route. The gear is very good, but the crack selective in where a solid piece would fit. That said, the entire climb is basically as safe as a sport climb. Something, though, about trying hard, even above solid cams, can prove distracting. I needed to be switched on for the entirety of this pitch, and the 70 odd feet occasionally felt much taller.

I'll spare you the beta blow by blow, because even to a climber audience, it can be cripplingly boring. Suffice it to say that some small cams protect hard moves on very good rock. Much of the movement is done with a higher proportion of balance than brute strength, though subtle technique and a clear head help push the climber through the crux.

For days on end, I lacked at least a part of the above equation. Thank you, then, to all the patient belays from Josh, Brian, Greg, and Rob, and support from onlookers. With your help, I was eventually able to learn the lessons necessary for success. I'm highly boosted by the understanding that I'm capable of Collecting those Bones.

The Naked Edge

Josh encouraged me with the idea of linking the first two pitches. “Start up the finger
crack, and then when you get up onto the slab, you’ll see the two bolt anchor. Check in,
and see how you feel. If you’re psyched, keep climbing. You don’t need much gear,
there are pins and bolts, and just make sure you still have a green Camalot. You can’t
miss where it goes. I think that’s the way to start The Edge.”

Such a suggestion was diametrically opposed to my first timid overtures towards one of
Colorado’s other big, proud 5.11 trad lines. Wunch’s Dihedral, a perfect granite corner
on the Cynical Pinnacle in the South Platte, had left you demoralized and frustrated
several years before. I fell multiple times, had a fit on lead, and whined my way to the
summit. The only thing that got me there was my partner, and he was gracious enough to
stop talking to me by pitch 3.

Last April, I had a chance to do some onsight battling with another titan; Eldorado
Canyon’s famed Naked Edge. I badly wanted to put forth an effort worthy of that
iconic sentinel boasting in the sun. I needed some sort of redemption for my past
embarrassment. I put a stop to the recollection of failure, and started climbing.