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.