abaluba

Published

2011-11-03T17:46:00.000-07:00

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

2011-10-25T14:17:00.000-07:00

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

2011-10-10T12:51:00.000-07:00

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

2011-09-29T15:27:00.000-07:00

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

2011-09-22T13:50:00.000-07:00

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

2011-09-12T16:12:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-29T16:56:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-04T13:29:00.000-07:00

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

2011-07-25T16:40:00.000-07:00

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

2011-06-17T14:51:00.001-07:00

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

2011-05-08T13:44:00.000-07:00

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

2011-04-20T13:10:00.000-07:00

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

2011-03-01T13:34:00.000-08:00

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.

The main objective that I was ultimately fixated upon was a famous multipitch sport route called Levitation 29. Seth, too, had his eyes on this well known line, so on the first day after our arrival, we set the alarm for 5 AM. Unfortunately, we didn't change the time, and forgot that Vegas is an hour behind. We were greeted with the darkness of a coffin's interior, and a groggy sense of confusion. Normally, an early start is a good idea for longer routes with a complicated approach. 4 AM, though? Jesus. That's too early.

Levitation takes the plumb line up the center of Eagle Wall

As you'd expect, we were the first ones up to the wall. The walk in was absolutely stunning, and probably worth the inhumane wake up on its own. Recent snow and rain left Oak Creek Canyon running with crystal clear water, and the polished stones looked remarkable as the icy runoff washed the scene to perfect natural crispness. When we started climbing, Seth and I casually swapped leads for pitch after pitch of fun. I got things started with some thoughtful 5.10 mixed climbing, and then Seth easily danced over the incredibly featured roof of the harder second pitch. The third and fourth went quickly, leaving us dangling below the crux pitch. To be honest, I was really excited to get a chance to onsight it, and dropped into Try-Hard gear just to make sure. For the whole route, the second was climbing in a heavy synthetic jacket and still shivering, so from the anchors above the crux, we started rappelling back to the bags. As a sign that he and I are in pretty decent shape at the moment, we finished these pitches just after midday. The whole route is really fun, but Levitation 29's crux delivered my favorite moment of the day. The feeling of pulling athletic, difficult moves WAY up on a sun-drenched (but still chilly) wall was pretty amazing.


Smiles after Levitation 29

The rest of the time, Seth and I were hanging out with the fearless Bodhisattva himself, Mike Patz. The three of us concentrated on enjoying the sun while sending sport climbs, doing some bouldering, and reading The Diamond Sutra, a text on the perfection of wisdom. Hanging out with Mike is always inspiring. He is someone I can unabashedly point to as an inspiration. Mike is a friend whose insight into the world and faith in my abilities have made me a happier, better person. He makes me want to try harder in everything I'm doing, and I had a great chance to do that while we were sport climbing at The Gallery.

At that cliff, I managed to send a couple of great routes. The Glitch is an arching arete that climbs up a series of big holds with fun, bouldery moves between good rests. The Gift is a legendary single pitch that dances up a lightly overhanging panel of varnished rock on perfect small crimps, finishing with a hard section that spits off plenty of would-be ascentionists. Additionally, I was able to onsight a few other low end 5.12's, and felt the passion for life flowing through my veins each time I'd lower down from the anchors to the high fives of my friends.

Seth on point at The Gallery

Our group's energy eventually faced the realities of work, school, and the siren call of other adventures. I had to mosey back home, while Seth stayed out west, still tempted by Red Rocks, Bishop, and maybe even the Pacific. Mike headed back to Harvard and his anesthesiology rotation. But the fantastic days spent playing outside, best friends alongside, is everything that Abaluba is all about. Life is a wonderful gift, and I'm so thankful for it.

Hatch a Plan

2011-01-31T19:08:00.000-08:00

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.

A similar trip I've been daydreaming about centers on the Northwest and Northern California, home to climbing areas like Index, Squamish, The Elephant's Perch, and of course, Yosemite. There, the rivers and rocks offer a similar mix of the ideals. Beautiful trout streams meander through mountain valleys, and towering gray granite, the undisputed King Daddy stone, beckon the climber. One day, native trout are teased into fighting, and the next, perfect splitters bite the climber's fingers. I'm hoping that a trip to the South Platte is a smaller, much more localized version of a similar trip to these areas, and both can happen in the not too distant future. First things first, though, and we'll start with the backyard.

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

2011-01-25T18:32:00.000-08:00

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.

It's a simple game of alligator. Remember that old teaching method Ms. Stokes (or your elementary equivalent) implemented to teach us "greater than, less than?" The alligator eats the bigger number. 10 pies are tastier than 2 pies, and, just like our reptilian brethren, I like the preferable situation a whole lot more. I'd rather like my job and do well at it. I want to do a job at work that makes them say, "I'm glad we have that guy." I'd rather crush it with my girlfriend. I'd rather send every route out there that inspires me. Further, I want to be inspired to go try really hard, and remove self imposed achievement limits.

My friend Alex has a theory about the triple send. Women, climbing, and school. He's a standout academic gunning for a PhD in Mechanical Engineering from CU, and wants to develop the better solar panel. With that sort of intellectual aim, I'm blown away. Alex makes me want to be smarter. He performs at a truly high level, but aims for results in his research that realistically have a chance to redefine the energy landscape.

Alex is also a flaming heterosexual. He's single, but would like to meet a girl to lavish with affection. He's a good looking guy with a nice sense of humor. There's no reason he won't be successful in that pursuit.

And finally, Alex is, like so many of my buddies, a rock climber. Rock God, I should say, as I watched him drag me up The Diamond this summer. Back around the Front Range, he'd make quick work of many hard rock climbs that had previously dealt many strong climbers a swift defeat.

Alex wants to send those three things, and it equals out to the Triple Send. I love the idea.
All I want to do is send those things, too, and I'm verbalizing my desire to jump on his bandwagon.

I shook off the cobwebs and made a solid plan for Valentine's. Even before I was told to up the romance by Hallmark, I booked us to another, separate dinner at a new place in Boulder called The Pinyon, a nod to their bartender (and a good friend of mine) for a monster dinner they're throwing in conjunction with Avery Brewing. JK and I have been talking plans about a trip to New Orleans in early April, too. Send the woman. Check.

I own the world's coolest fucking van. Captain Walter C. Lewis, US Navy (Ret.) sports a turbo diesel engine, a hotel room in the back, and a sound system that leaves the elderly frowning. I want Wally to take me there. Where? Anywhere! We went to Hueco just the other day, and now I'm planning on taking him to Indian Creek over President's Day Weekend. I want to prep for another big sandstone finger crack out in Zion this Spring, and then set my sights on more big routes in Wyoming, Colorado, and California. I sent a ton of rock climbs in 2010. 2011 is going to be more of the same. Hell, I'm off to a great start. My hardest trad pitch to date went down a few weeks ago! Climbing. Check.

And work is moving forward. I've been realizing that there are specific ways I can interact with people that will give them greater confidence in processes that are going on around the office. I can listen to what people really need in order to accomplish tasks, and then deliver them that information with the understanding that they are now no obstacles from our goals being achieved. Push them forward as a friend and colleague. I can think about the bigger overall picture with clarity, and customize my efforts to move an organization forward. Sometimes it is in advance of a company's priority to receive a Right of Way from the Federales. In the future, it might be something else. Win, Win! Whatever the goal, I'm going to send work, too.

And 2011 is shaping up to be the year of the 3x Send!

The Bone Collector

2011-01-16T12:18:00.000-08:00

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

2011-01-10T14:23:00.000-08:00

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.

The route starts at a ramp a few hundred feet above South Boulder Creek, above a few
pitches of easier terrain. A perfect finger-sized crack parallels the major arête on The
Redgarden Wall, only 3 feet or so to the climber’s left. Hands alternate between jams
in the crack and pinches on the famed Edge. Smearing the feet and trusting the balance,
I eventually found myself above a small piece of gear, and one of those perfect rock-
climbing moments flashed into my brain. I could either panic and try to shove in another
piece, likely resulting in a crippling pump that would ensure a fall, or I could collect
myself. I’d have to move higher above gear, risking a slightly bigger fall, but if I could
get out of my own way, I could work through the sequence above.

I committed to the climbing, forgot about the fear, and pulled. I was working smoothly
and more quickly, and soon stood on the much less exposed face above. Two bolts
greeted me after 90 feet of strenuous climbing.

Stopping was certainly an answer. The Mountaineer’s Freedom of the Hills clearly
identifies that very location as a “bombproof” belay. But it was a bit in the shade, high
up on that slab. ‘Maybe,’ I thought, ‘I should just listen to some sage advice and peek
my head around that corner again. Let the sun beam down onto my face. The wind will
steal a few chalk nuggets, but it might be a bit warmer.’ So I threw a long sling onto one
of the bolts, checked for that green Camalot on my waist, and kept moving.

Sure enough, just after I pulled back around into the sun, there was a perfect spot for that
piece of protection. A green Camalot is about the size of a small ice cream cone, but this
magic feat of engineering always leaves me feeling safe. I swaggered up on the small
edges above, higher and higher, eventually into a small, scooped corner. There was chalk
to the left. I thought, ‘Yeah…I could see how that might go. Of course, there’s chalk
our right, too. Decisions, decisions.’ And then, did my mind wander! I looked down,
and saw that last bit of safety perilously below my feet. The tunnel vision started to flare

a bit, and then perhaps the vertigo took over. Was I 40 feet above that cam? No. No,
couldn’t be. ‘Get a hold of yourself, young man. It’s like 10 feet below you.’

Oh, yes, of course. But then there was that little fact that the first two pitches now ran
together. That meant I had about 125 feet of rope out from my belay. I’d fly days. ‘Shit.
And…that edge. That EDGE! Josh is on the other side of it, and he’ll never know I’m
falling until the rope jerks him to attention. That’s if the son of a bitch is even holding
it.’

All that self-imposed distraction was pushing me farther from success. I needed to
get my mind back to where it had been while I was exiting the finger crack below. I
needed to feel the connection to all the meditative mind I’d ever felt, invite myself (and
particularly my mind) to be entirely present in that one moment. I needed to focus.

I think I went right. I know I was up and down a few times. I know I called Josh terrible
things, accused him of holding me hostage. And I know that, finally, I made it to another
two-bolt anchor.

I brought Josh up from the ramp, and he with minimal word waste, we steamrolled
through another pitch of good rock. After that last mega pitch, this easier section felt
merely average, but I was happy for Josh to lead and allow my mind to take a break. I
followed him smoothly, and was able to settle into the climbing. I even became anxious
for more action.

Fortunately, Josh enrolled me at the Sharp End once again for the chimney pitch. It was
such a thrill to be alive, to act with courage in the one place where I was meant to be at
that moment. I heard Josh suggest moving from the thin face holds our right of a pinned-
out corner, and into a funky stem. He’d been right so far. Then I remember moving out
right on poor feet but with generally good holds. And then, if memory serves, I found
another “bombproof” seat on a pedestal that gave me the best view of Eldo I’d ever cared
to imagine.

Josh came up after, and then climbed up the overhanging hand crack, eventually out
of view and onto the finishing slabs above. I grit my teeth, and pulled through the last
hard moves, aware of the bitter threat posed by blowing the onsight at the very top. We
congratulated ourselves, and then found our way to the East Slab descent, making eye
contact with a passing peregrine.

Back at the car, we drove home to pack for my first trip to Yosemite, and left the next
day.

Mr. Do-it-Yourself

2010-12-06T17:58:00.000-08:00

I had to call the front desk in a bit of a panic. Almost all the channels here in my hotel room were working fine. The lone exception was ESPN. Instead of the football game, all I could see was a jumble of paralyzed, scrambled pixels. Hummm. I'm out of town for work, and don't have too much else to do this evening. I'd done some Christmas shopping, exercise, and answered all the emails. Gorged on pub grub (as it always seems to be when I don't have access to my kitchen) and, basically, bored. I felt that the spectacle of the NFL, violence in shoulder pads and shown in HD, would probably do wonders for the speed of the evening. With nothing but static, my plan looked almost as stalled as my screen. WWGPAD? What would Grandpa Do?

Over Thanksgiving, I had some time to sit with my the old colonel, Don Arth, and just hang out on his terms. Most of the time, that meant in his garage, tinkering on some home improvement project under a wall of tools. That was just fine with me. When I was younger, I didn't take much of an interest in anything mechanical. I didn't have a house or a car that could constantly require preemptive attention, and likely just assumed that I'd just call in a handy man any time something wasn't working. You know what? That gets expensive.

When I bought my Sprinter (officially known as Capt. Walter C. Lewis, US Navy (Ret.)) and started planning the RV conversion, I was probably still working under that mindset. I came up with most of the conceptual design after consulting with a bunch of my friends who had already done their own van build-outs. Instead of building out the bad/bench/table set, wiring the lights and house battery, and installing the new stereo, I just searched out a professional, wrote the check, and called it a day.

Vans, if you haven't heard, are really good at two things. Primarily, the deliver the ultimate climbing and road trip experience to the vertically inclined ruffian. "Dirtbag fabulous," as Josh says. I've spent a ton of time driving around in my beloved Subaru, Abbie, and even though those days in Rifle, The Red, and Indian Creek were wonderful, the car wasn't exactly the tipping point. This spring and summer alone, I've "vanned" it in Red Rocks, The Valley, again in Indian Creek, but those trips were in the care of my buddies Josh Finkelstein and Madaleine Sorkin. After being so kindly treated by their four wheeled mansions, I realized I had to get one of my own. But then comes the van's second best trait; the ability to need a little more attention than your average vehicle.

A shop in Denver did most of the carpentry work and electrical system in the Sprinter in late September, and things were going well. Of the nearly five weeks I spent climbing in Kentucky, I probably spent three weeks worth of nights in the van, even when we had a cabin. I realized a few things here or there that I wanted to fix, but those were limited to storage spaces or the occasional squeaky hinge. Problems started when Julia and I were driving home. She and I were midway across Indiana when the radio started to quiet, fading with a meek crackle. The interior lights connected to the house battery were really weak. It didn't take us long to figure out that the battery had been drained. It was supposed to charge from the alternator when Wally was running, but obviously wasn't. I wasn't anywhere near Denver or the guys who'd done the work. I was, however, pretty close to my grandfather's farm. The family had planned to spend Thanksgiving in central Missouri, so at least the timing of this "breakdown" was good.

Grandpa took out an ancient analog voltmeter, and we started poking around under the hood and in the battery compartment. My grandpa showed me some of the basics about direct current, circuits, and switches. We weren't able to entirely fix the source of the problem, (a faulty relay in the ignition cylinder) but grandpa did have a 12 volt battery charger. He helped me hook it up, so at least we didn't have to ride across Kansas in silence after our turkey feast.

Better still, I was armed with a bit of curiosity about those previously unknowable mysteries when I got home. With this little additional curiosity (and the desire to spend my money judiciously) I dug deeper. I called my friend Dan, a veritable encyclopedia of knowledge when it comes to home and vehicle repair, and he helped me out even more. He opened the steering column of the van and started explaining exactly what we were seeing. Instead of being something I had to do, learning about some of these basics became really fun.

It seems like we have the problem diagnosed just in time for a trip down to Hueco Tanks for some of the best bouldering in America. I'll be down there the week before Christmas with a bunch of buddies, and am really happy to get the van back into its preferred role of fun-delivery vehicle. And speaking of fun, the football is back on. "Schports, bubby!" A coaxial cable was just a little loose. I don't need to call in Comcast. I just need to look around a little bit.

Mike Patz and The Evictor

2010-12-03T13:51:00.000-08:00

"Oh, but the moves are so good! Up in Eldo, climbing at The Rincon Wall. Sun shining so warm that even early December feels slippery. Those finger locks that are just good enough to let you climb past, but not hang out for too long. A few edges just where your feet absolutely need them. Even checking things out on top-rope, you were engaged. Your mind found the meditative state, the flowstate. The Place that climbing can deliver your pilgrim ass better than any extant transportation vehicle now at hand. (Except maybe music). You wanna go back. You want to get it figured out with the safety of that TR, and then you wanna pull the rope and see how it feels to climb it for real. You wanna go back. There's no denying that little fact."

My brain will exercise its incessant need to forget what I'm actually doing at any other given instant, and return my mental energies to that climb. Like any good climbing route that's just above one's physical, mental, and/or emotional pay grade, this is starting to take the form of obsession. I am nervous to admit, but I might have found a new project.

I noticed my mind first starting to stray toward The Evictor while I was dripping sweat in a yoga class this afternoon. The studio is miles from Eldo. There's no real reason to mentally be up on a wall while I'm physically in a yoga class, right in the middle of a perfectly nice warrior variation. My wonderful girlfriend not 12 inches away, and I started thinking about the crux sequence. "Stay in the stem. Elevator the hands up the seam. Oh, God. I can't believe that left hand works. Right hand next. Left foot up...stand up. Stand up. Tense and stand up. Breathe."

Climbing tries to teach me about the value of a present mind, but I get greedy. I'm getting torn out of yoga class by my memory of three little crimps and a nubbin of rock for my left foot. Obviously, I have yet to put my goal into full time practice. I want the pure focus that climbing provides to become ubiquitous in all my activities. The mindset I get while I'm climbing is a blueprint for my mind's eternal peace. Climbing is the way I've first found meditation. It can deliver a pure focus where only the present moment exists. All distractions disappear. That memory of climbing, ironically, tempting me away and making the realization of my goal all the more difficult.

Back to the mat. I battle with it, but for the latter half of the hour, I'm there in the class as much as I can be. The yoga feels decent, then good. Finally, my mind's wandering slows, and the movement is less hindered. My body fights back a little less, my breathing becomes a bit more regular and decisive. I feel my muscles shake, and the balance over my feet sways in my equilibrium's breeze. The lesson took a little hold, and I settled in for another chance at meditation.

* * *

Mike Patz first introduced me to that panel of red sandstone painted in neon lichen, proudly rising high above Eldorado Canyon. Splitting from an obvious corner up an improbable face, the route growls. There are just enough incipient cracks and rough edges suggest possible success. The chalk hints at aspiration. The gear placements sternly remind you to keep it together. Mind on the mat when you're up on that wall.

We started climbing together while we were both undergrads at CU. Beyond climbing, Mike introduced me to his devotion to success. He saw no contradiction with desiring a medical education from Harvard with continuing to climb 5.13. He shared his queries into the world's order, and wondered at an individual's self imposed limitations. Couldn't we believe that an individual perceives a limit to their total effort and output? What if we can believe that each person's ceiling is built by their own mind? I saw that for him, rigorous academic effort didn't neuter the chance for adventurer accomplishment. Mike believed his ceiling would allow for both. He willed it so. While I first perceived his success to come from luck, god-given talent, or something beyond himself, I came to realize that Mike tried harder than me. Certainly at climbing. Maybe at everything. And when I realized that, I could understand how he came to do The Evictor.

As I belayed, too scared to even try the route with a top rope, Mike would balance up above the trees. He calmly slotted in the available gear, and then climbed bravely above. He wasn't ascending for show, or trying to improve his standing in the community. He was acting on the understanding that trying with the entirety of one's being is honorable, and that doing so above a small but solid piece of gear, metaphorical or otherwise, was the manifestation of his flowstate. It was the denial of distraction. It was a living moment, manifest.

Years pass, and Mike and I continue to talk. As he and I get older, we begin to construct a dialogue about our shared passion that questions our own deeper motivations. We still love the visceral thrill of climbing. We're enamored by the power and the balance and the calm that this silly defiance against gravity demands. Lately, though, we've vocalized another area of resonance that each of us feels while we're climbing. This is more than just fingers and toes. This is emotional, mental. Spiritual? We each hope for "flowstate" every time we grab the wall. We share a desire for meditation, presence of mind. It's a tree I want to inhabit, but fell clean out of at a mid-day CorePower session.

I should probably find a way to climb up sit tight, focused only on the immediacy of a single second, if I want to ever have a hope of sending this project. Or any other. Vertical or otherwise.

Planning a Reunion for the Holidays

2010-12-02T20:13:00.000-08:00

My good friend Neil is turning, gasp, a healthy 30 just after New Years, and his wife Heidi decided to plan something cool for him. A party, of sorts. Since they will be in Neil's hometown of "Luhvull," Kentucky right around Christmas, coinciding with the return home of many of their longtime friends, Heidi invited a big crew of people out for a night of celebration. Pizza and beers downtown. After a long chat with Neil last night, I decided to book a ticket, and so after not more than three days of being back, I'm scheduled to return to Kentucky.

This trip isn't about the climbing. In fact, I'm just going to be in town for a little more than 36 hours. Even so, it's hugely worth it. Neil is a closer friend to me than just about anyone else in my life, and between that bond and the fact that another close buddy, Ethan, will be there, I couldn't turn down the chance to see him at a celebration in his honor.

It isn't like Neil and I never get to see each other. In fact, I drove down to his home in Knoxville, TN while I was out in The Red. That quick hello was superficially more convenient, so in deference of the fact that he's reached a milestone, I wanted to express in my actions the fact that he means more to me than just someone who I would see while passing through.

Ethan isn't exactly a stranger, either. He and I manage to put together a yearly skiing trip, and usually find a good excuse to hang out at least one other time during a calendar year. He lives in Burlington, VT, though, and so it isn't quite as easy to happen by his house if I'm on a big climbing trip to Yosemite or The Southeast. Being both a medical resident and new father doesn't help to ease our scheduling, either. In spite of the geographical distance between us and the other easy excuses, Ethan shocks me in his ability to hop in the car or onto a plane and meet up with me regularly. He's picked me up in Chicago when my connecting flight to Louisville was canceled. He's booked enough tickets to Squaw, Jackson Hole, and Denver that I'm sure some of his other flights were paid on miles. I wanted to live up to a lot of the sacrifices he's made to get out West in an effort to keep our friendship up to date with face to face contact. As soon as I heard that he was going to be at the party as well, I had to book the flight.

It's good for me to keep up with those people who have shaped my life, made me a better and kinder person. Some of them were woven into long stretches of my life's fabric. Semesters in Spain. Seasons in New Zealand. Summers in Boulder. Other people were bursts of immediate energy that lasted only a little while, in a particular location. Still, these interactions shaped me too. The connections I have with them endures, as well.

I'll tell some of their stories soon.

Writing

2010-11-30T20:00:00.001-08:00

Free form here. Just gonna rattle for a bit.

I've got this fantasy that I'll someday actually write something of note. A screenplay, perhaps. When I'm being more realistic, I sense that it will actually take the form of a series of essays. I think that format would be a better fit for me because I don't take the time to actually plan or outline anything. Hence the blog populated with little more than isolated, esoteric ramblings that are ultimately little more than a chronicle of my daily location and cosmetic feeling. The one post I'm actually proud of is the one that talked about the trip up The Salathe. And I find no coincidence that this was the one I actually worked on.

Fuck! Get it together. This is more of the same.
Take out a notebook and think up a story.

Home Again

2010-11-29T14:37:00.000-08:00

As you can probably imagine, returning to Boulder after nearly 5 weeks away is proving to be quite the jarring experience. I'm not sure if it was the necktie, perhaps tied too tightly, or the fact that I'd taken the stairs instead of the elevator from the 6th to the 11th floor of my office building, but when I walked in for a meeting and found myself short of breath, I knew something wasn't quite right. I'm worried that once you start taking extended, enormously fun climbing trips, "reality" just isn't quite as cool.

Looking back, I had one of the most incredible experiences over this past month. I'd told myself (and ex-girlfriends who were probably hoping for a more "normal" looking life) that I didn't want a van, but after driving across the country to the best sport climbing in America in a rig built for a dirtbag king, I realize I might have been lying. Capt. Walter C. Lewis, US Navy (Ret.) is, perhaps, the greatest machine ever made. There are still some details that need to be finished, but even in the rig-in-progress, I was as content and happy as I could imagine.

The climbing proved to be just as good. We had another month of perfect weather, and the friends from this trip provided great partners for climbing days and relaxing evenings. I even had Julia to hang out with, as she came out towards the end of the trip and got to see what all this road trip commotion is all about.

Happily, I can report that I managed to finish Table of Colors. That route is this marvelous book end on either side of the last year of my life. I'm not sure I've ever tried a route that many times, and nearly faltered under the pressure of knowing that if I didn't get it done in the allotted time, I'd have to drive home, all 1,500 miles, empty handed. It took me the better part of a week from last year's trip, and another 4 days of this year's, but I was able to send The Red River Gorge's first 5.13, and one of its absolutely most beautiful lines.

Between Kentucky and Colorado, we stopped by The Farm for the Thanksgiving feast. Normally, I'm kind of a scrooge when it comes to the annual potato ingestion, but there was so much positivity going on this year in central Missouri that even I found it hard to frown. The food was incredible, and we tried to cook up enough veggies to make it almost healthy. The friends and family that was gathered there came together to provide a really caring, positive backdrop. Knowing that my grandparents are getting a bit older, and suffering from some deteriorating health also added to the motivation to find presence in each moment, and create a wonderful reality.

That, primarily, was my focus while I was on this trip. It can be so easy to marvel at the fun and beauty of a day when you're doing exactly what you love with people that you care about. For me, that is many times climbing with friends. But what I've come to realize is that a climbing trip like this, so filled with present mindfulness and satisfaction in the moment, is hopefully an analog to what I want to feel all the time, regardless of situation or backdrop. For me, right now, the goal of being alive is to realize that I exist in the precise moment of my life, and to appreciate all the gifts that come with that. I can't always be climbing, or be in a situation that is basically free from hardship. I can, however, realize that to fully experience, learn from, and grow from each day, I have to know that I'm in the midst of it.

As such, it's good to be back home. I'm happy to settle into a routine that should (hopefully) allow me to earn some money before the holidays. I'm not quite ready to strap on the skis, but with a forecast that's calling for high 50's and sun in and around Boulder on Friday, I may not have to. Hell, even if it looks crappy outside today, I've got friends in the gym and a turkey-leftover feast in the fridge. ABALUBA!

Sanctuary Crushing

2010-11-11T09:39:00.000-08:00

Good news. The CO crew headed out to Muir Valley and the crown jewel crag of the area; The Sanctuary. Josh, Seth, Brian and I had been there one day prior on this trip, and we'd sussed out a little knowledge of three of the best climbs there. Prometheus Unbound, Jesus Wept, and Triple Sec are absolute classics...all in that 12+, 13- grade range, and by far some of the best in the area.

Seth was able to finish off Triple Sec, and Brian and I both did Jesus Wept.

Here are some pics of Seth:

Back at The Highlander

2010-11-07T18:12:00.000-08:00

Oy.
Back here at The Highlander cabin, backdrop to last year's RRG adventure, and psyched at the comfort. This place is a bit nicer than the cabin where we'd spent each evening of the last week. In the end, the cabin doesn't make or break the trip, but having slightly nicer accommodations makes a subtle difference. For now, it's just Brian (arrived yesterday), Josh, and his brother Seth. Nick and Robin should come down tomorrow after they took a day or so off and headed back to Ohio. That will tighten up the personal diffusion of space, but they add a sense of humor and smart conversation that is great.

These last couple of days have been unparalleled. The weather had taken a bit of a dive at the end of last week, but the weekend was cold, sunny and crisp...perfect for trusting the friction, believing in the eternal lightness of a sport wanker's soul, and really going for it. As an aside, I hear my buddy Andrew did his long standing project Living in Fear out in Rifle. Congrats! I'm assuming he had good fall temps out there in western CO, as well. It does feel so damn good to send...

With the posse here in KY, we've been like locusts on the prowl. We went out to The Sanctuary today, and all spread out to see the highest regarded climbs. Brian nearly onsighted Prometheus Unbound, doing it second try. I had two really quality burns on Jesus Wept, one hanging from the second draw on that second go. Josh and Seth both worked on the powerful and bouldery Triple Sec. The excitement that was in the air was really contagious. It was so easy to look out at the leaves falling off the trees, backlit by a fading sun, and think about how wonderful an experience it was. I'm so damn lucky. I get to do what I really like to do, a lot. I've got a big group of supportive people, have been blessed with youth and health and passion. As my buddy Rob has said, "we're gonna be shoveling a lot of shit in the next lifetime to make up for this one."

Yesterday was just as good. The Finkelstein's and I headed out to Funk Rock to get on two classic routes. Appalachian Spring is a beautiful hanging face up streaked, sculpted sandstone painted orange and black. Orange Juice, the other climb, follows a perfect line of pockets up an otherwise blank panel on a tall, proud wall. While we were working, along with several others, on these two climbs, we ran into our friends from from Maine; Pete and Jen. I've been absolutely loving hanging out with those two. I am startled at the depth of Pete's accent, and the speed at which it can send me into convulsive laughter.

Seth had been on Orange Juice previously on his climbing trip, and had the moves locked into an ironclad beta sequence. He encouraged me to try to flash it, and I figured I'd give it a shot. When I got to each crux section, he'd tell me how he'd done it and then belayed me as I climbed through each set of pockets and into the next rest. He had it on absolute lock down, and the vibe at the cliff was totally positive...Josh and Pete were hooting it up, Jen and another one of her friends were kicking back in the sun, and I had the moment of pure mental flow state. I didn't think about anything except the moves directly in front of me, and without much stress or hubbub, I was clipping the chains. That, Voyeurs, is exactly why I'm on this trip, and is exactly the reason I do this.

Abafuckinluba.

Resting Today

2010-11-03T10:41:00.000-07:00

I'm up in Lexington, waiting out the rain. The weather had been perfect up until now, but we seem to be in for a few days of relative shittyness. Oh well, I need the rest.

Josh and I went to a crag called Purgatory yesterday, and we got on what might be one of the greatest pitches of rock climbing ever sculpted from stone. Starting in one crack system, you climb up for only 15 feet or so, then traverse on small pockets up towards a striking, steep, and intimidating arete. With total body tension, you climb the prow to ever more difficult moves, and finally get a chance to breathe...when you clip the anchors from the only big hold on the route.

AMAZING.

Table is still closed because of the fire, but the rain today should help.

Otherwise, it's more of the same...climbing until I can barely move, shuffling back to the cabin for a massive feed preparation, and then passing out for 10 hours of sleep. This is nearly a perfect life....just missing the good company of those left in CO.

Hope everyone is well!

A week in

2010-10-30T22:54:00.000-07:00

Good God, Kentucky is amazing right now.

The weather is holding really well, and things are just perfect out there. Well, almost perfect. I am unfortunately stymied at the moment when it comes to getting back on Table of Colors. In a nearly comical similarity to what's going on back home in Colorado, a fire has shut down the road into, and also the trail that serves, Left Flank, the area that hosts the climb I really want to do on this trip.

I'm holding out hope that after a few more days, the access will be opened again, and I'll get back there. Since I have been held back from getting right back on the familiar project, I've been climbing down at the Motherlode a bunch, and I also had a really good day up at The Solarium. The grades there are mostly pretty soft (though I didn't try Mirage...a crimpfest 12c) so I managed to easily onsight a 12b called Super Best Friends. I also was able to onsight another 12a, and thought I'm less concerned with the fact that I'm doing those routes, I am very happy with how things feel right now in comparison to how my fitness was going at this point in the trip last year.

Last fall, it felt like it took me a couple of weeks to get into the position where I could really recover on those archetypal finger buckets that make up a large portion of 5.12 here. I think a big part of it is the "4 wheel drive" mentality I've been trying to repeat in my head like some kind of mantra. I've been consciously taking the weight into my legs as best I can, and pulling with my hamstrings....keeping my feel high and moving them before my hands. That strategy is paying off. It feels amazing to be on terrain that is very steep, and know that I'm learning how to make it feel slightly less so.

I nearly sent 8 Ball today, a classic and hard 12d, coming really close after only 3 tries on the route. There is a dihedral through most of the crux, and I've been busting out the Rifle inspired knee bars to occasionally take some pressure off my hands. I know that some of the old school, hillbilly locals pout when they see that kind of intelligent beta employed, but what do I care? I wanna send, and I don't have time to waste.

Other than the great climbing, I'm picking up Josh this weekend, and am really happy to have a familiar face arriving.

This last week had me finding an easy pattern. I'd get up, make breakfast in my chilly van, get packed up, wrangle on the cell phone hoping to get a partner out of the dozen or so people I know that are down here, and after I found one, I'd head out and meet them at the cliff. Don't get me wrong, I had a fantastic week with people I really like, but I'm just not as close to the people I was climbing with as I am, say, to Josh or Brian, who arrives next week. I've been so lucky to cultivate these great friendships with people back in Colorado, and climbing is even better when you're with people sharing a deeper connection than just grabbing rocks.

The van has been a CHAMP, though, and I've been so happy to have that as a traveling home. I really want to get the kitchen built this winter, and feel lucky that I've been able to spend some time in it before that "remodel." It's so much easier to build what you actually want if you've been in there a few nights and had the chance to say, "this would be really nice if it were just so..."

So now I've got a long list of stuff to do here in Louisville, and as always, I'm so lucky to have the Parrish family extending their enormous hospitality. Off to get a little work done, and then head back to the gorge. Missin' my Voyeurs back in CO...

Red Report

2010-10-28T09:26:00.000-07:00

Kentucky is, odd to say, kind of lonesome right now. I've misjudged the arrival time of my friends from Salt Lake (they get in at this end of THIS week, not last) and, as such, have had to scramble a little. The good news is that I was able to climb at The Dark Side with Erin and her boyfriend Kennan, who used to live in Boulder and have since moved to Stanton, KY. Then I got a half day at The Motherlode with my buddy Thomas, a medical student up in Lexington.

The climbing partners haven't been the problem. The nights hanging in the van, reading or talking on the phone, but either way, wishing my buddies were out here, have been sort of long. But the good news is that it looks like the SLC crew arrives tomorrow, and Josh is out this weekend.

The van is working really well. I've realized some small details that might make things way easier. A cargo net here, a shelf there. But basically, I'm camped in total comfort. I might make a trip to Wal-Mart to see about a net, but let's be honest...I may stay for the people watching.

As for projects, I haven't been able to get up to try Table of Colors again, but I did get on a couple of other harder climbs that should keep me intrigued. It looks like I have really good weather lined up, so after my rest day today, it looks like I'll get to totally enjoy the fall here.

A Return to Abaluba, A Return to The Red

2010-10-24T19:23:00.000-07:00

It’ s been a long time since I’ve posted. When I left off, I was planning to head to
Burning Man, and figured I’ d have a report on par with my essay from The Salathe wall.

Instead of heading out to Black Rock City in Nevada, home of debauchery and cradle to
tales of transcendent chemical/sexual/musical/artistic visions, I went to Minnesota. Quite
the trade., I had to backtrack on the idea of partying my brains out because the chance
to buy a ridiculously cool Dodge Sprinter van fell into my lap. I know the term "ridiculously cool" isn't typically associated with Dodge and Sprinter, but after Josh and I spent three weeks in California in his recycled USPS Mail Van, I had to follow suit with a purchase of my own.

Not to disparage his fine Ford find, but my van, Capt. Walter (Wally) C. Lewis, US Navy (Ret.), or Wally for short, allows for even finer dirtbag fabulous road trips. The extended height allows for me to stand in the cabin of the turbo diesel, 26 MPG beast, and the interior is so designed as to allow for maximum relaxation/cooking area/sleeping quarters/boombox. I, loyal voyeurs, am very excited with the purchase. I'm sure my lovely girlfriend Julia would assure you likewise. She's been quite the trooper, allowing me to talk about beadboard paneling, self tapping screws, swivel seats and bio diesel without even a roll of her eyes.

Dan, the friend I was supposed to meet in Nevada, still maintains that the Burning Man experience was one of legend. He was patient enough to understand my leaving him high and dry in the desert. I'm sad to have missed out on that trip with him, sure...but I'm psyched he's still taking my phone calls.

Behind the wheel of Wally, I am headed out on a climbing trip somewhat similar to the one I took last fall, with a few exceptions. Instead of rolling out for three weeks, this trip is closer to five. Josh, my partner from Yosemite, and Brian, my roommate, are both planning to come out from Colorado at various points in order to climb with for a while. I’ m meeting up with about
a half dozen other Colorado climbers, as well. That part is going to be amazing. The
ones that can’ t make it, especially Julia, have me missing home, but I’ m
so lucky to have the chance to chase the autumn here in the Southeast, climbing on amazing overhanging sandstone, and doing battle once more with projects like Table. I have to be out here.

Like last year, I stopped at the farm for a couple of days before arriving in Kentucky. It’ s
been great to spend some time in central Missouri, and I got to work on the
new garage that’ s going to house mowers, machines, and tools. The major difference here on the Arth family estate is that my grandmother is battling lung cancer, and I wonder how many more times I’ m going to be able to stop by while she’ s still here. She’ s looking pretty spry, so I’ m assuming that this Thanksgiving is a very safe bet. Past the end of the year, though, and I’ m not so sure.

Morbid thoughts aside, I’ m really excited to head towards Kentucky. I have a project
from last year that I’d LOVE to finish up. I tried Table of Colors enough times to leave
my hands raw and bloodied, but couldn’t ever link the moves together into a successful
effort. I’m hoping that I’ m a year stronger, a year smarter, and a year hungrier. If none
of those happen to hold, at least I’ve got the moves, all 28 of the hardest for me, written
down in a journal from 2009. There’ s got to be some significant advantage in having
been there before.

*

*

Other than this trip and the new wheels, I’ve spent the summer spending lots of good days with Julia, working a little harder on my job, watching Arrested Development on DVD,
fishing a little more, and trying to be a bit more present in my day-to-day existence.
I’ d like to blame/credit that mentality with the lack of blog posting, but in truth, it may
have been sloth. Whatever the reason, I’ m greeting the autumn with a renewed take on
writing. Hopefully, the content will be a touch better, and there won’ t be such gaps in
between posts.

Maple Canyon

2010-08-17T15:10:00.001-07:00

I'm out in the middle of Utah with my buddy Dan as we search out Maple Canyon's finest steep, cobbled sport climbs. The drive from Boulder has kept me wary of this place. 8 hours is a pretty formidable commute, especially since you have to pass right by Rifle to get here. I always seem to get distracted, and hadn't made it to climb before.

I have, though, been to this valley on a previous work trip. I didn't even know Maple existed when I passed through back in 2004, so instead of getting to sample the towering cobbled walls with (mostly) fluffy grades on the trade routes of The Minimum Wall, I headed to Joe's Valley instead. Now that I'm back, though, it does look pretty familiar.

There's the rows upon rows of turkey farms, stinking up the air and giving me pause when I think about industrial meat manufacturing. Snow College in Ephraim is the scholastic powerhouse I remember, as I'd been there with Landman extraordinaire Bill Untiedt in his quest for a Snow College Badger's Basketball T-shirt in between bouts of teaching me how to acquire oil and gas leases from skittish Mormon ranchers.

Upon closer, second inspection, I can say the best place about this Sanpete Valley is the climbing. Dan and I have been able to get on some unfamiliar routes, a rarity for us project minded men. Normally, we get so routine with the climbs we pick at Rifle, and climbing becomes an exercise in whittling down a climb from impossible to "wired" over the course of numerous attempts. Here, we're onsighting to our hearts content, and marveling at the weird rock. Cobbles, anywhere from golf ball-sized to watermelon replicas, are glued in place by an odd sandstone matrix. Many of the holds on routes 5.12 or easier are incut and friendly on the skin, with the name of the game being endurance over pure power.

We've got a few more days of climbing before we head back to Colorado. Then, I'll focus on working and (hopefully) doing the Diamond up on Long's, and after a week of relaxing in the familiar, head to Burning Man.

I'll try to write about my pre-trip excitement and expectations, and then take a ton of pics while I am out in Nevada. I'm hoping to get something similar to the Salathe post in terms of content and scope, but have a little time until then. For now, it's rock climbing and enjoying the summer breeze out in Utah.

Alternative Title

2010-08-03T19:16:00.000-07:00

What we could call this is a TD/HBI #5. Instead, it's merely a field trip.

To Wal-Mart.

I'm staying in Rifle at the moment. Work has called me back to the place I love, the place I keep secret from work so I'll not confuse those two idealized worlds of "nose-to-the-grindstone" and "unshackled joy". For some reason, the desire for such intense separation drives me into a job I find interesting, though by odd proxy, a sad reminder of where humanity currently resides. We dig up pretty things out of the ground and, though admittedly adroit practice, pump out playtoys and cheap plastic crap by the oceanload. Don't get me wrong, I love my playtoys, too. But I can't help but shake my head at the mere mathematical inevitability that my love, times 7 billion, equals too much garbage, smoke and oily pelicans.

Wal-Mart becomes the unwavering Target for my disdain for other people's consumerism. At a certain level, it becomes intuitive to do the math described above. I hardly even notice the pun, my sneer turned towards the bastion of capitalism based in Arkansas, USA. That math can't have sunk in too deeply.

Walking inside of that place, the rows upon rows of shiny junk glint in the fluorescent light reflecting down from stark white ceilings. I flinched at a clamor, thinking there was a fight in an adjacent aisle. "Take cover! These roughnecks spend all day on a well losing fingers and brain cells. I know they're mean and strong from slinging those drill bits all day, and God knows they'd beat me to burger."

Around the corner, a wall of televisions show, with perfect synchronization, a familiar movie. Thank god there wasn't a gang war. It was only Percy Jackson, son of Poseidon, if memory serves. This character is in a movie my young cousin tried, in vain, to convince me to watch while I was recently at the farm.

I avoided the television shrine, and moved on to lighting. I was hoping to find bike illumination for my two wheeled transport I'll ride at Burning Man. I want to be beaming Lumens while I ride through the playa, sufficiently so that no matter the amount of chemicals pulsing through someone's brain, they'll avoid smashing into me. Additionally, I'm bringing a Lacrosse helmet, just in case.

The lights were no where near the Low, Low Prices I been assured would greet my arrival. In fact, I could buy them for $10 anywhere. No need for that then...and so I started to roam.

In camping, I saw Mountain House dried backpacking food. See? We all like to eat shitty food out of a foil pouch when we're out sleeping with the bears. At REI, they sell Kathmandu Curry and Spicy Pad Thai. In Rifle, the consumer either prefers the Beef Stew or BBQ Chicken, or are assumed to be too stupid to track down that Himalayan city, let alone appreciate the delicate spices and flavorings. As such, they're presented with provincial fare reminiscent of Midwestern stereotypes.

It was someone's conscious decision to ship those particular flavors to those particular stores.

In Tools, I saw gloves that looked imbued with dexterity, a feature I'm sure I'd love while belaying friends at the crag. A painting mask would be great for any dust storms in Black Rock City, NV. Kitchen offered a cutting board and knife, two things I could put in my kitchen box for my next camping adventure. Never mind that I already have two of each.

Jesus! I can see how someone can walk out of there spending far too much loot on superfluous stuff that doesn't make their life much better.

I had to get out of there. I tried to bolt for the door, but couldn't find my way to the exits. Passing men and women, many my age, toting their several young children, towards their intended aisle, I shifted my gaze until it finally met a way out. My eyes avoided contact with any other articles which might tickle my need's imagination. All this stuff was putting up a mighty fight to separate me from the contents in my wallet, so I blasted, Millennium Falcon style, out of the front door and into the perfect summer air buzzing with glow bugs.

My hotel was just down the frontage road, not 300 yards. The wide eyed disbelief shown me by an incredulous, rusty cowboy as he drove past in his pickup told me that I was the first white to ever walk such a distance within the incorporated city limits. As I bounced back towards the corporate confines, I strolled next to a creek of sorts. In reality, the running water was more of a ditch for the irrigation runoff carrying cattle effluent towards the Rio Colorado and our fine brown friends downstream. Left unattended, however, and ferns were stretching upwards, nearly knee high. The smell was mesmerizing; spent diesel fuel mixed with wet shit over field greens.

Just before I hopped across the three lanes of traffic, I scouted the Roan Plateau and mourned its inevitably demise. Someday, that plateau will just be a hole in the ground. Fortunately, there will be plenty of development where it once stood.

TD/HBI 4

2010-07-26T22:31:00.000-07:00

I'm back from the little break. Sorry, but I've needed some time for blog silence. Now, though, I've realized that I need to post an idea.

Here's the thing: I turn 30 next year. That thought isn't inherently terrifying, but as I've just spent the last weekend with my Grandparents, I'm somewhat more motivated to live aggressively, to try to continue to engage in experiences that will leave indelible memories. Grandma is, sadly, getting worse for wear and likely doesn't have much time left. My Grandfather is in fine health for a man in his late 70's, but his proximity to visible demise is impossible to ignore, and this has a saturating effect on my perception of Grandpa Don.

These weekends we've taken at the farm have served a multitude of purpose, though at the top of my list is a chance to try to support Grandpa. Superficially silly, I go to cut the grass. There are something like 70 acres of lawn in central Missouri that Don Arth fights, tooth and nail, for each upward inch. Even with a riding lawnmower possessing a wide cutting deck, this takes hours. I know that part of my Grandfather needs consistent chores to stay busy, likely it's actually good for his health. At the minimum, a general bookmark. Also, though, I know that sitting for a day in a riding lawnmower, in the blazing July sun, gets lame. I can help him for a few hours, and even if it's largely symbolic, I want him to see me covered in grass clippings and sweat.

I also go out for my mom, who, in spite of a very reasoned understanding of the physics and inevitability of mortality, is still watching her mother die. Four plane flights, two rental cars, and several trips to the grocery store later, and she is at the farm with her own children. We're rarely in the same place for an entire weekend, and this gives us at least the chance to maintain a connection.

During my entire youth, the farm came to symbolize the connection with my maternal family. The cog of this wheel was my Grandfather, and to a lesser extent my Grandmother, so it is in their fading that new core relationships take on an added importance. My cousin Michael was there. He's a young man who is well spoken, interesting, and charming. My sisters were out there. I had a chance to sit and talk with Reilly, and enjoy a cool Gin & Tonic with Megan. These interactions don't necessarily make or guarantee some future connection, but they greatly facilitate its possible existence.

And it's through that lens of mortality that I've taken a keener interest in my coming birthday. It's not scientifically or physically that important, but 30 is a nice round number that has some cultural significance. Much more adult, much more advanced, that much greater through the ratio of time remaining.

And so I don't want to waste that time.

* * * *

While I was in Yosemite with Josh, he and I batted about the idea of a bike trip through Northeastern Spain. We could visit incredible climbing areas and have an amazing, irreplaceable cultural experience in addition. The bike would allow for slow paced travel. It would take the rider to small villages, and keep the adventure going. Much of the accommodation could be done on the cheap, and the time, if the rider wills its sacrifice, could stretch much longer than a "lavish" two weeks. For me, the idea took on added allure because of my desire to return to the country where I studied abroad, and reintegrate with a language I'm worried is slipping away. Josh was more enchanted with Southern France, where's he'd be linguistically more familiar.

The style of seeing Spain is a chance to reignite a fire fueled by adventure and unknown, and also a springboard into a new time and stage in my life. I've said for a while that I don't necessarily want to become dependent on my job for identity, and that a more diverse career is attractive. I'd like to think that I can save, between now and next July or August, sufficient money to take a three-six month trip to Europe. Then, I can set sail and see where I end up. I would like to diligently write the story, and turn the tale into more than just one blog posting.

The Salathe blogpost was the best I'd written on Abaluba, largely because there was, by far, the greatest wealth of material from which to draw. Burning Man is at the end of August, and I expect that will provide another rich group of stories. But to me, the prospect of combining a bike, Spain, and a rock climbing adventure is too beautiful and inspirational.

The seed has been planted. Perhaps I'll find sufficient sun and rain to let this grow. Let's hope.

Viva España

2010-07-11T20:35:00.000-07:00

Spain won the World Cup today in a game that nearly gave me a heart attack. It was a bit tough for me to cheer for so many Barcelona players wearing the Castillian crest on their shirts, but thankfully Iker Casillas, Real Madrid's goal keeper, saved the game with two incredible stops before Andres Iniesta rocked home a goal deep in extra time.

I hadn't washed my navy blue Spain jersey since the team beat Portugal in the round of 16. I can finally clean that poor shirt, and might be on the prowl for another piece of team wear. Specifically, I'm thinking about one that has the world champion star over the national team embroidery. Might have to go with a red one.

Watching the game at a bar in Boulder, I started thinking about the year I spent over in Madrid. The memory of all the close friends I made in that wonderful city flooded back, and as I raised my hands in celebration of the winning goal, I was right back in La Pedriza with Matt, Tom, and Neil.

Seeing Spanish fans packed into the Plaza de Colon for the game, screaming their hopes at the enormous television screens set up for public viewing, brought me back. The streets of Moncloa rang with my footsteps as I paraded between bars with Vino and Nicole. Late nights on The Metro, our apartment above the Hotel Melia, and Pilar's place above Blended.

None of that is going to mean much unless you've been to those same places. Even then, they might not have the same weight. Living in Spain for me was such a turning point. So many good memories are rooted in Iberia, and the game brought so many of them back. Viva España!

The Salathe Wall

2010-06-25T16:55:00.000-07:00

The final headwall on The Salathe Wall is one of rock climbing’s greatest pitches. This 240-foot stretch of brilliance caps one of the most famed routes on Yosemite’s El Capitan. The headwall is a perfect panel of overhanging granite, almost 3,000 feet above El Cap Meadow. While the tourists choke the road below, a laser cut finger crack starts at a huge roof and arches for a full 70 meters to the narrow, hanging confines of Long Ledge. This fissure is almost perfectly uniform, a half-inch crack with only the tiniest of edges peppering the face of America’s proudest rock monolith. The gray, white, orange and black granite was surely poured by Zeus himself.

It’s possible to free climb (just fingers and toes, no hanging on your rope from gear placed in the rock) all the way up from the roof to the ledge in one monster pitch that checks in at a very difficult 5.13c. For everyone other than the absolute elite, world-class climber, this is impossible. Instead, most people have to use aid (hanging from cams and nuts and stepping up on nylon ladders) to climb it, myself included. Early this summer, just for kicks, I added one more degree of difficulty. I led the headwall at 2 AM, illuminating the crack purely by headlamp, as my partner fought to stay awake while he hung above the abyss.

Had we been able to see the entire Southwest face of El Capitan falling away below our feet, Josh or I might have passed out. The terror of hanging that far into space has surely reduced better men to tears. Instead, we crawled slowly and half blind to the promise of an uncomfortable bivouac on Long Ledge, managing the fatigue of our back-to-back 16-hour climbing days by taking small bites of dried mango.

* * * *

Night climbing on the headwall wasn’t what Josh and I had set out to do. Our Yosemite plan began to take shape in the heart of Colorado’s winter, six months or so before we’d find ourselves up on The Salathe. Around Valentine’s Day, I heard back from graduate school. Though I hoped to enroll in a master’s program in renewable energy and resource conservation at Berkeley, they politely told me I should stay home. No love. The denial from a program I’d truly wanted to attend hit me pretty hard.

As soon as I let my friends know that I’d been denied, I was blown away by their support. Left and right, my best buddies picked me up, dusted me off, and began to bombard me with plans for replacing Berkeley with something more adventurous. One friend suggested Burning Man, a wild music/art/um…psychedelic festival in the Nevada desert that takes place every August. Another asked if I’d like to travel across Spain and France on bicycle, touring sport-climbing areas and drinking as much wine as possible. The most immediate suggestion came from Josh Finkelstein. When I told him I didn’t get accepted into the program, he patted me on the back and congratulated me. “Congratulations?” I wondered. Didn’t this asshole know how bummed out I was?

“You’ve been accepted into the prestigious Finkelstein School of Granite. Classes begin this spring. You and I are going to Yosemite.”

* * * *

Fairly quickly, we set our eyes on one objective above all others. The Salathe was, without a doubt, THE route we wanted to do. It had the reputation of being one of the 50 best climbs in North America, and everyone we talked to who had done those 35 pitches glowed about their experience. Josh and I felt fairly comfortable that we could manage the difficulties, but there’s nothing like the unknown. Though each of us had been climbing obsessively for over a decade, each fully fit and capable of climbing 5.13, and each feeling reasonably dialed above gear, neither of us had done a route of that scope. At least Josh had previously climbed in Yosemite. I wasn’t entirely sure what I was in for.

The Salathe begins with a ten pitch route independently called The Freeblast. The Freeblast represent about 1/3^rd of the height, but only about 1/6^th of the effort. From there, the climbing meanders just left of the obvious “Heart,” and then past some of El Cap’s most defining and visible features; The Alcove, El Cap Spire, The Sewer, The Roof, and then, finally, The Headwall.

“There’s a lot of wide up there,” said our friend Chris Brown.

My naivety took over. “Like Number 3 Camalots?”

“You fucking wish.”

Those nice, slightly wide handcracks that Number 3 Camalots indicate are few and far between. The “wide” that Chris mentioned comes in many forms. The most notorious is The Hollow Flake, just after the finish of The Freeblast. This pitch has a reputation as being nearly impossible to protect, and scary as hell. If you fall out of The Hollow Flake, you’ll take a swinging, 80-foot fall and smash into an adjacent corner. Simply put, don’t fall there.

After that is The Ear. A huge, looming bombay chimney that, fortunately, protects safely with a #6 Camalot, the largest available at over seven inches wide. In The Ear, the climber can scoot it along at an arm’s reach. When The Salathe Wall was first climbed in 1961, protection largely comprised of pitons and small metal nuts that could slot into finger sized cracks. Cams, the protection we now rely on so heavily, were years away. The fact that today, a climber can settle into a secure position and move this big piece of pro alongside him or her renders obsolete a comment made by Royal Robbins, part of the quartet who made the first ascent. Robbins deemed The Ear the most terrifying 5.7 in the world. His aid hammer and pins have been replaced by modern gear. Thank god.

Those two pitches are just the most infamous of “the wide.” The Half Dollar, The “5.7” Chimney, and The Monster Offwidth all guard against ascent. And when The Salathe doesn’t throw gaping cracks at the climber, there are still plenty of demanding pitches that, in spite of their more modest grade (in light of modern sport-climbing standards), take their toll. And, lest we forget, there’s that looming headwall.

Even given the route’s formidable pitches, Josh and I decided to throw another wrench into the mix. Most parties take around four days to do the climb, but our friend, Chris Klinga, had pulled off a speedy, two-day ascent of The Salathe Wall in 2007. At the time, he was a neophyte wall climber, but Chris assured us that he and his partner had simply taken along a very Spartan backpack instead of being bogged down by the widely accepted method of hauling a large, heavy bag. The second would jug the rope behind the leader and bring up the bag on his back. Josh and I shrugged off other people’s suggestions that jugging with a pack was tantamount to Guantanamo-inspired torture. Light and fast sounded pretty badass, and we figured that this style honored The Salathe’s place amongst the greats. “If we were going to do it,” we thought, “we might as well go big.”

Before we left Boulder, I saw my friend Timmy walking down the road. He was just back from some adventure, and I felt lucky to run into him. I explained our plan, and as is his typical style, Timmy got excited and was full of energetic support. “Just go for it!” he exclaimed in that devil-may-care voice.

When we drove into The Valley, Josh pulled the van over, and our necks craned to each vertebra’s full range until we could see the top of America’s most iconic piece of stone. The silence in the van and enormity of the rock was suffocating. “Jesus!” and an audible hard swallow, the only sounds as I contemplated what we’d signed up for. But then, sensing that the most difficult part of the whole climb might just be slinging the rack onto our harnesses and tying into the rope, Josh and I gave our best Timmy-O impression. “Just go for it!” A few days later, we’d do just that.

* * * *

Hanging out in El Cap Meadow, or next to Tom Evans, his camera, and high-powered spotting scope on The Bridge, it’s impossible not to daydream about what it’s going to be like on the wall. That sense of wonder is especially strong if you’ve never been up there. El Cap is The Valley’s magnet, and even though there are dozens of other famous rock faces to climb in Yosemite, that gray giant has an unmistakable pull. That very gravity started to weigh on my mind, especially as the time for climbing drew near. The doubts were creeping in. Throughout the trip, I’d been worked by most of the offwidth we’d climbed, and the prospect of climbing such a towering route with a modicum of gear left me feeling exposed.

Hopefully the weather would hold, because Josh and I had decided to leave the rain gear, bivy sacks, and extra clothes in the van. In the backpack, there was room for a few gallons of water, heavier than we wanted. We also brought four sandwiches, one dinner of burritos, nine bars each, dried fruit, and some Pop Tarts. We had one belay jacket, one lightweight sleeping bag, and two ultralight air mattresses. After that, we tossed in a very basic first-aid kit with the ironic branding of “Optimist,” an iPod, and a spliff. We would have brought two, but it was a tight packing job. So those, along with the rope, a tag line, and the rack, were the supplies that were taking us to the top.

The weather report showed an extended forecast of sunshine, with temps in the mid 70’s and a minimal chance of precipitation. Time to go. We set the alarm for 4:30, and tried to get some sleep. We awoke in the dark, and quietly ate the remains of our Curry Village pizza from the previous night. Our thermos had coffee, brewed the day before, and we drank it down to avoid the stove and save some time. Camp quickly broken, we drove to the parking area below the rock, and walked towards the wall just as daylight showed us our marvelous confines. Yosemite, during an anxious and expecting sunrise, is heaven.

I led the first block – The Freeblast. Given that Josh and I were not hauling, doing the route in blocks made the most sense. That would allow one climber to focus on the leading while the second stayed in his approach shoes and jugged each pitch. Even though ten pitches seemed like a long block, The Freeblast goes pretty quickly. Josh and I were able to cut in front of a German team at the base, and their acquiescence allowed us to get a jump on the morning. We gave them our best “danke” and stomped on the gas, climbing as fast as possible.

I was able to get through the first pitches of climbing, a long 5.10 section, some 5.8 fist sized crack, and then a 5.11 roof, reasonably quickly. We were finding a good rhythm and moving quickly – exactly what we needed. Josh and I would shout motivation to each other as much as possible. This often came in the form of simian grunts. I know it sounds weird, but when I’m sport climbing, there’s a lot of birdcalls. “Ca-Caw!” gets converted to the chimp's “Oomph, Oooph” when confronted by Yosemite’s granite. The myth of The Valley’s Stone Monkeys inspired us to call out those grunts from our bellies.

On pitch 5, a thin and difficult to protect 5.10d, I ran into some trouble. The crack peters out and the only pro comes as Aliens (a specific type of cam prone to fitting into placements where no other cam can go. Alternatively, they’ve acquired a reputation for poor quality control, and every now and then an Alien will fall apart under no weight whatsoever) stuffed into pin scars. They’re as good as it gets for this sort of spot, but the flaring holes beaten into the crack by the aid hammers and pitons of yesteryear aren’t the uniform slots where cams work best. I carefully tucked a red Alien into a pin scar, and then committed to the delicate, run-out moves above. A bolt was just out of reach at the top of the unprotectable seam, and as I smeared my feet and tried to gain those extra millimeters, I felt my balance shift.

As I peeled off the face, I had time to grab the rope and make sure it wouldn’t run behind my leg, flipping me ass over teakettle. Then, Josh and I locked wide eyes, and I went for a 30-foot ride. The cam held, and Josh’s belay brought me to a stop as softly as possible. “Holy shit!” I hollered. There we were, going fast, taking the whip on The Capitan. I felt a wave of inspiration come over me, and quickly pulled back up to the Alien and beyond. I didn’t fall there again, and the adrenaline brought me past the next few pitches.

By early afternoon, the end of my block was coming close. I squirmed up the Half Dollar, an interesting chimney feature that forces the climber to turn out and peer towards the valley floor. I could see the trees below, beginning to look less like pines, and more like scrappy bushes. We were really gaining some altitude. Josh did the last bit of jugging, and met me above this pitch on a comfortable ledge. Here, he changed into his free climbing shoes, and started to make the transition. Though he still followed this last bit, we decided it was faster if he just climbed the long, traversing ramps. We topped out The Freeblast with 200 feet of simul-climbing. Then, Josh and I sat back on a large series of ledges called Mammoth Terraces. We drank plenty of water, ate a well-earned sandwich each, and reflected on the climbing to come.

Every bite we took lessened the weight of the backpack, we hoped optimistically. Slinging it onto my back for the first time, though, I realized that it was still painfully heavy. Hadn’t we aimed for light and fast? The straps dug into my shoulders, and I knew that I had a long afternoon ahead of me. When I saw the climbing ahead, though, I gladly accepted the trade. Straight above was plenty of that infamous “wide.” “Good luck, partner,” I thought, as Josh took the lead.

The next pitches would be the most strenuous, and potentially dangerous, of the route. Josh started with a short pitch of reasonable climbing, and then we arrived at the famed Hollow Flake. The crack width occasionally accepts a hip, but never feels secure. If the climber can squirm completely into the crack, falling becomes almost impossible. Upward progress is slow, but the head-to-toe friction lessens gravity’s downward pull. The Hollow Flake won’t let a climber inside, and as the rope slowly moved out from my belay device, I became more and more thankful that Josh had volunteered for this section.

As Josh neared the top of the Hollow Flake, I figured that he was probably having the most trouble keeping his mind steady and on the task at hand. It’s one thing knowing that you can take a big fall into space and onto solid gear. Keeping focus knowing there’s zero room for error takes amazing mental steel. Though he was around a corner and out of sight, I knew things finally came to a good conclusion when I heard another climber, high above us on the face, call out “Hollow Flake cleared!” and a dozen climbers shout out in encouragement and congratulations. Josh had gotten the rope up the most terrifying pitch of all 35.

We still had several infamous pitches above, notably the “5.7 Chimney” and “The Ear,” a huge Bombay slot that Royal Robbins dubbed “the most terrifying pitch of 5.7 in the world.” Again, I was thankful that it was part of Josh’s block, and I simply did the monotonous work of sliding up the fixed rope that Josh fixed at each belay. This monotonous work became nearly impossible in the “5.7 Chimney.” With the pack on my body, I couldn’t fit into the space where Josh had just climbed. I struggled and thrashed against my ascenders, but made painfully little progress. We hadn’t planned on this.

I clipped my GriGri onto the rope, released my ascenders, and slid back to the start of the pitch. Then, I took off the pack and left it on the ledge. There was no way I’d be able to jug this pitch with the pack, and instead, cleaned the remaining gear without the hindrance of our bag. I popped out from the chimney at Josh’s feet, and he began to congratulate me on my progress.

“Way to go man! You’re…wait. Where’s the bag?!?!”

I could feel the desperation in Josh’s voice. Exasperated, I explained how the chimney had crushed me. I felt a little air go out of our team. We were beginning to tire, and the sun was racing to the horizon. I still had to go back to the ledge and get the bag, and this would take time. The additional work would mean we’d finish in the dark. Wordlessly, I returned to the ledge for the bag, and then jugged up the rope that was now free to run outside the chimney. Josh started to climb towards The Ear, and knew that we’d need to avoid another time-sink like the one we’d just endured.

The Ear didn’t give Josh too much trouble, save for the two puncture wounds he suffered when he was cleaning a big #5 Camalot from behind him. It stuck for a moment, but then popped free to smack him across the face. He had to keep cleaning the gear from behind him so we wouldn't repeat the earlier jugging debacle. Back cleaning an entire pitch can get stressful, though, because you get farther and farther from the belay with only one or two pieces protecting against a fall. When he got to the anchor above The Ear, I heard in his voice a sincere fatigue. “No gear in there, Patty. Should go well.”

The light was fading, but I realized that the fear I’d felt on the ground was slowly being eaten away. We were making good progress, and though we would finish in the dark, we’d reach, more or less, our goal for the day. We had originally hoped to sleep on El Cap Spire, an amazing pinnacle of rock that is detached on all sides from the wall. Instead, we came up one pitch short. Josh and I made our camp at The Alcove, and as we pulled into this room sized cave, met up with a surprise duo. Our friends Casey and Lukas, both from Boulder, had been in front of us all day. The four of us exclaimed how nice it was to have the familiar company. They were doing the wall as a team of three, and Scott, their third, was up on The Spire. After a few quick stories, Casey and Lukas nodded off to sleep in the portaledge they’d dragged along. A flat, hanging cot is one of the creature comforts a climber has available when they haul gear. So is a stove. Josh and I, however, ate our cold burritos, and then snuggled in for the night on a sloping, lumpy stretch of granite directly under their cot. Sharing a sleeping bag isn’t so bad when you’re too exhausted to notice.

* * * *

We awoke in The Alcove the following morning to a word that would be uttered a number of times that day: Clusterfuck. After a breakfast of Pop-tarts and a quick romp up to El Cap Spire, we saw cracks streaming with water and seven fixed ropes clogging any ability at upward progress. It’s a good thing we didn’t push all the way to The Spire, as there was no vacancy anyway. We found ourselves behind our friends from Boulder, but also two groups trying to do The Freerider, a variation of The Salathe that runs concurrently until the last several pitches. This traffic jam was going to slow our upward motion severely, and Josh and I had little to do but wait our turn at each belay. Passing some of the parties would have probably been beneficial, but, in all honesty, the other groups were going about as fast as we were. Jumping them in line only to have them wait for us seemed senseless, and with that, we settled into a slow day and the knowledge that our plan for only one night on the wall might not work out.

Again, we split the climbing into blocks. Josh led the first six pitches of the day, the most memorable being a section nicknamed The Sewer. This portion of the wall is always soaked, but as we climbed it, the water seemed to be coming down with unusual cruelty. A steady stream dripped on both of us, and as I jugged, watched as water was wrung from the sheath of our rope as my ascender bit down.

As I watched the water leave the rope like drying laundry put through a wringer, a weird but unmistakable sound came from above me. The rope had wedged behind one of our pieces of protection, and at a certain point, the angle and force combined to push the cam so deeply into the crack that I’d never hope to free it. The rope ran from my ascenders, then inside of a crack in a huge roof, through a stuck cam, and then out from the rock up to Josh. I had absolutely no way to proceed, as the rock literally blocked my way.

I was faced with an ugly dilemma. I built an anchor with some of the gear I’d already cleaned out of The Sewer, and hung on these pieces. Then, I shouted up to Josh that I needed to unclip my ascenders from the rope and have him pull it up. This would free the rope, I hoped, but then he’d need to drop it back down to me. Unfortunately, I was under a roof, and also off to the side of his belay stance. That meant there wasn’t necessarily a guarantee that he could get the rope back to me. I weighed this nasty calculus in my head, but realized that I didn’t have any other options. The rope snaked away, and I dangled, now disconnected from my partner, 1,700 feet above the Merced River. Josh tried to toss the rope back to me, but could only succeed in getting it about 15 feet to my left. He flipped it back and forth, but the distance was hopeless.

You can’t plan for everything. When we were on the ground, debating about what to bring and how we’d split the climbing, I never imagined that I’d need to hang out while Josh tried to toss me the rope. Before things got hopeless, though, I realized that I still had the tag line, our thin, 8-millimeter static rope, running between us. This second cord was our margin of safety, and would allow us to rappel the route if we absolutely had to. Now it was about to save my ass in an entirely unintended way. Though it was too thin to ascend, Josh could clip our free hanging lead line to the tag line, and this would guide the newly freed rope back to me. The makeshift plan worked perfectly. The visions of my skeleton, rotting in its harness under that roof, disappeared as I clipped back into the rope and motored up to Josh.

After this near miss, I was eager to swap duties. Josh put on his approach shoes while I switched to my climbing boots and discarded the pack. I felt so much lighter, so unburdened. Most importantly, I finally felt like I was contributing to the second day of the ascent. Josh and I had spent the majority of the day waiting at belay stations, watching the sun cruise towards the horizon. This provided plenty of time to chat and look at the topo. We realized that there was almost no chance we’d make the summit that day, but instead, decided to aim for Long Ledge.

Starting to lead as fast as I could manage, I tried to link two pitches into nearly a full rope length. I climbed the first bit of beautiful 5.10 hand crack, thinking, “Finally! Those number 3’s!” As the pitch steepened and my muscles lagged, I began to aid through the pitch. Done as a free climb, the remaining 140 feet would go at 5.12d, but I realized that it would be much faster to simply aid to the belay. I finished just below the famous roof, a nearly horizontal stretch that leaves the climber feeling like the last autumn leaf on a tree.

Josh met me at the belay under the roof, and the light began to fade substantially. For the second day in a row, we affixed our headlamps to our helmets. We knew that we still had at least three pitches until we’d get to a ledge where we could sleep. The artificial light would just add to the adventure. With the new illumination, I led out the steep roof, and onto the headwall above. Slowly, I made my way out from under the roof, and by the time I’d climbed those 100 feet to the hanging belay just below the headwall pitch, every hint of sunlight had vanished.

* * * *

With the daylight gone, so was much of the day’s warmth. The dark slowed us down substantially, but this only added to our uncomfortable cold. My headlamp lit the rock just in front of my face, but it also showed the faint wisps of breath that came from my mouth. I looked at Josh, wrapped in our only jacket, and thought about how we might have wanted another layer. Well, tough shit. Time to get climbing.

Just off the anchor, with only that thin beam of light to show the way, I found myself dealing with some difficult gear placements. That headwall crack was just ahead, but before I could get to the security of its crack and the promise of solid gear, I had to fiddle with some tiny brass nuts, smaller than pencil erasers. At nearly midnight, close to 3,000 feet off the ground, hanging in my aiders from tiny protection, I felt more alive than ever. My mind hardly noticed the distractions. I was in that place of focus, that “flowstate,” where climbing so often takes me. But then, I rushed a placement.

I tried to place a piece that didn’t seat particularly well. As I stood up to slot my next piece of gear, I heard, and then felt, a pop. Without time to realize the physics, I had plummeted at least 20 feet, and was just above Josh, right back at the belay. I wasn’t proving to be a particularly adept aid climber, but I was getting really good at whipping on The Capitan. I thanked Josh for the catch, and then, again, pulled back up to the piece that had caught my fall, an ancient aluminum head that had long ago been pounded into the rock. Who knows how many more falls it will take? I picked a better-sized nut, weighted it, and found myself into the headwall crack. I could breathe a little easier.

Above, I found much easier aid climbing and made progress. It was slow, certainly, but it was steady. I got into a bit of a rhythm, and began to see an end to our second marathon day. After an hour or so, I could make out the ledge we were aiming for. Finally, after a few more hairy aid moves, and with visions of my last fall fresh in my mind, I pulled onto Long Ledge. I tied the rope off for Josh, and collapsed in a heap. It was 2AM.

Long Ledge turned out to basically be a rock ditch. This perch, a scant 3 feet wide, would have to suffice. Scott, Casey and Lukas had decided to sleep on Long Ledge, as well. Thankfully, they had their ledge, and knew to expect our arrival. They didn’t leave a light on for us, but did leave us just enough room to flop down in utter exhaustion. Since Josh and I would share a sleeping bag, we’d have to cuddle with our feet in the other’s armpits.

Josh and I pushed and folded our sleeping pads in a vain attempt at comfort. We licked a few scraps of food from the Tupperware that held the remains of our previous night’s dinner. Then, finally, we passed out on a ledge that was tighter than a sidewalk. When we awoke the next morning, we looked over our shoulders and saw the drop down to the valley below. Doing that final stretch in the dark may have been a godsend, because if we’d have been able to realize the position we were in, we might have screamed in pure, unadulterated terror.

The morning thankfully arrived as another day of sunshine, and as I rubbed sleep from my eyes, I was again amazed at how well I could sleep, even in such a wild position. Josh and I had only four more pitches to the summit, so we lazily awaited the direct sunlight to hit our camp. After a couple of slightly chilly hours, we started moving. Josh took the leading responsibility, and uneventfully raced up the four remaining pitches. For the first time in three days, we ended our climbing in daylight. We pulled up and onto the top of El Capitan, the entire Yosemite Valley stretching out below us. Josh and I could hardly speak. We just gave each other a hug, and realized that, for both of us, there would never be another experience like our maiden voyage to the top of The Capitan.

* * * *

It’s been nearly two weeks since we returned to the ground, drove home to Colorado, and got back to “normal” life. Work is, as you might guess, pretty mellow in comparison to what we’d just done. That’s not to say our regular lives are bad. I don’t think I could handle doing walls full-time. Hell, the World Cup is on, and I love watching the games from the comfort of a couch. I love talking on the phone, eating good food, drinking warm tea, and seeing my friends and family. And maybe that’s the point. I feel like I have been able to enjoy life’s subtler, more predictable moments. But I don’t want to get too predictable. Now that I know how the moon feels under my feet, I look up towards the stars every night through new eyes. That feeling, my friends, is Abaluba. Go live big.

Valley Update from the Eastside

2010-06-06T13:24:00.000-07:00

OH BOY! It's so good to bring you an update from the beautiful Eastside of the Sierra here in California. Josh and I had been in the Valley for a while, doing some more training routes in preparation for our jaunt up The Capitan. I can't spray about the plans, other than to say we're hopefully doing it.

One of the prep routes was Central Pillar of Frenzy on Middle Cathedral. I took a pic of our cross-valley neighbor, and also a neat little video.

Otherwise, we've been hanging out in Tuolomne (Tioga Pass just opened) and reliving some of that magic that those meadows and granite domes has in spades. The last time I was up there, Rob Coppolillo and I were cragging and nursing sore necks from craning our eyes towards Cathedral Peak and Tenaya. This time, Tenaya Lake was under snow, and waterfalls were flowing everywhere. It was an alpine wonderland.

After Tuolomne, we bounced down to the Eastside and had a meal at the world famous Whoa Nellie Deli. This place serves, no joke, some of the most incredible food I've eaten. Certainly, those lobster taquitos take the cake for best meal I've ever had out of a Mobil gas station. Wolfing down the red corn wraps, pineapple salsa, green chile and fresh green salad, all while looking at the sunset over Mono Lake, was about as good as it gets when you're decompressing and hanging out after a few days in Yosemite's madness.

Images from Yosemite

2010-06-03T11:31:00.000-07:00

I've been able to take a few photos and shoot a couple of videos from these last few days in Yosemite.

In short, Josh and I started our climbing here with a route called The Moratorium, a "5.11B" finger crack that leads up to the start of the East Buttress of El Capitan. We were hoping to link the two climbs into one big day, but there has been a ton of snowfall this winter, and the Yosemite waterfalls are in full force. Subsequently, the East Butt was soaked, and we had little to do after finishing The Moratorium but look up, think twice, and start the long, slow slog down towards the van.

Yesterday, we made the big approach up to Higher Cathedral and did a super classic, big route called The Northeast Buttress. This Grade IV (big day for most parties) was, in fact, a ton of work. Pitch after pitch of what can only be described as "manly" wide climbing finally deposited up at the summit, and gave us a perfect view of Higher Cathedral Spire, an independent formation just across a small gully.

Today, we're resting, catching up on life outside The Ditch, and enjoying a leisurely, stunningly beautiful day in the shadow of El Cap, Half Dome, and The Sentinel. This is a magical place. The walls are big and intimidating, the climbing is hard, and the feeling of one's own insignificance is magnified by the thundering Yosemite Falls and a sea of golden granite.

The Road to Yosemite

2010-06-03T10:30:00.001-07:00

I’ve neglected the blog lately, it’s true. I’m back though, trying to do a better job with Abaluba from the road. That sounds like a losing proposition. Adventures through the Colorado Plateau, SugarHouse area of SLC, Reno/Tahoe, and finally, Yosemite, are going to leave me with less steady internets, and we all know how I’ve done over the last few weeks while I was still in Boulder. A man’s allowed to try, though, so bear with me.

I’m out on the road until mid June with my buddy Josh. You might remember that I applied to grad school at the end of 2009, though in February or so of this year, found out that Berkeley didn’t desire my academic services. Immediately at the time, Josh accepted me into the Finkelstein School of Granite, and classes have just begun.

My first course in this prestigious area of study took place in Eldorado Springs. Imagine my surprise when I was climbing the towering Naked Edge with Josh. Here I thought I’d be climbing exclusively on that stone who’s grandeur was once described as “King Daddy,” and the first thing we got on was sandstone. Good thing it’s one of the best routes in the country. The Naked Edge, towering over the entire Front Range, snakes up a perfect arête for six pitches, and delivers move after move of memorable exposure. I managed to do it without falling, though there were times when the insecure climbing left me feeling like I might be dangling from the end of our rope at any moment. Josh had done the route before, so he was content to give me the lead on the starting pitch, a remarkable finger crack just five feet from that namesake edge. I also got to link that into the second pitch, a bit of a wandering arête/slab pitch that culminated 140 feet or so with a committing move above great gear, but with the threat of a big fall if I didn’t dance the required dance.

After one more lead (a wild stemming chimney) and two other leads by Josh, we were standing on top of Boulder County, planning our descent down the East Slabs while locking eyes with a proud peregrine. Back down to the ground, we headed for the house to pack his van, and then took off Westward for a trip down into the intimidating Black Canyon of the Gunnison.

Hades. If Yosemite is that King Daddy, Zeusian stone, then The Black is made up of rock straight from the lithifying river Styx. A gash, straight down into the Earth’s mantel, and the only way in is down a loose, tick-infested gully. Don’t worry, everywhere you step, there’s likely frothing poison ivy. Once you finally make it down to the start of your climb, whether that’s at the shore of the thundering Gunnison River or on a buttress higher up the gully, the walls look down at you and ask if you’d like a beating. No option but to take it like a man and get your whooping. The rock is loose, the protection occasionally scarce, and the routefinding difficult, we managed to tick off a classic called Comic Relief and then get so hopelessly off route on another that we then just tucked tail and headed for Grand Junction.

Perhaps the best story of our time in the ditch was as we were realizing our mistake on a route called Debutante’s Ball. We found ourselves on a sloping ledge, loose blocks all waiting to cut our ropes like daggers if even looked at crookedly, and the only way up was out an exfoliating pegmatite band that looked deadly loose. Retreat! We managed to find other people’s bail stations, so we only ended up leaving a little cord, one nut, and a biner, but no sooner were we back to where we’d started the climb did we realize that now we had to walk up and out that same S.O.B. gully. Normally, you at least get the glory of just topping out the climb and waddling over to your camp for a beer. Insult to injury, I suppose, except that no one was hurt in the making of this adventure.

And now we’re on I80, Reno in our sights, but without AC, the van is cooking us. The Death Star is high in the sky, and we’re just hoping to race it to the state line before we’re turned to leather.

Crew stagnation. It’s a thought I’ve been toying with a lot lately. Last year was my best year of climbing, by far, and I almost entirely ascribe credit to my friends. They were the ones who got me motivated to train in the gym harder, to get on routes that might have felt over my head, and who patiently belayed me as I made the slow and necessary progress to break into the 5.13 level.

Josh is a similar motivating force. He’s focused near singularly on the granite, in his mind the holiest of stones. I’ve opened my mind to the possibility of long free routes done on gear, and on stepping up to those classic routes that comprise so much of our lore. The generation behind us laid a foundation for visionary routes, and though the culture now emphasizes the hard sport routes, I’m glad to be getting back to my roots. I feel that I’m straddling a good balance at the moment. I’m trying to get out and do those seminal lines that have stood the test of time, but at the same time, embracing the fact that hard sport climbing is where we out our marbles these days.

Right now, I’m in more of a classic phase, but I realize that the two play in harmony. Shit. It helps to be strong. To know that you can put a harder to bed without as much fuss. And I’m hoping that the balance I’m feeling, one toe on either area of focus, stays with me as I try to tiptoe up the great white walls of America’s climbing Mecca – Yosemite.

The Rainbow Wall

2010-05-06T20:06:00.000-07:00

(Photos by Chris Brown. His blog (and entire website) is a must see: highexposures.com

Fast and light? In a day push? I've talked to several friends who have done The Original Route on The Rainbow Wall in a day, car to car in 14 hours. One of Red Rocks proudest features reduced to a game of tag. Sure, we're physically able, but that's not the point. This isn't about ego. We were not trying to race up towards the summit of Rainbow Mountain, visible all the way from The Strip, and tick it off like the green route in the gym. Don’t get me wrong, we're not trying to minimize such an approach, if that’s your goal. Our team of three, Josh Finkelstein, Chris Brown, and myself, all project and sport climb. There's a time and a place for racing, but for us, this line didn't qualify. We sat back to take in the experience, to let it wash over us and clean the grime of city life from our skin. We were only out there for two days, but the entire time, we hoped it would never end.

Climbers are so regularly emboldened to push their limits because of gear and the results of freakish fitness schedules. Cams are so well engineered, ropes withstand unimaginable forces. Boulder has four incredible climbing gyms for my training pleasure! Boil that together, and you’ve got a potent motivational tea that allows climbers to push it. We see, in videos, blogs, and magazine pages, the glory of our heroes on walls farther and much more remote than the outskirts of Vegas. After enough climbing porn, we have the belief that we're capable, perhaps vicariously, of only slightly more modest feats. Josh, Chris and I picked The Rainbow Wall. We dared to even choose a style. We decided on a relaxed pace, a team of three. Two nights of bivying with our morning coffee made from snow, and the dazzling lights of a desert tumor blotting out the dark, only a few miles below.

We slept at the base of the route the night before climbing. We hiked in as the sun slid past the mountains, the heat of the day riding like a fog on the trail. As the daylight softened towards evening and the temperature incrementally dipped, we finished the final slabs and saw our new home, if even only a temporary one. A perfect, level ledge, four feet by six. Our heads touched the nadir of the central dihedral that leads defiantly, proudly, to a summit 1,200 feet away. A small ring of stones outlining our bedroom. A meek defense against the wind; an appropriate metaphor as man chops hopefully against the very air he breathes.

We spent the night watching stars wheel above our hanging, stone ceiling. It's a view we'd never enjoyed, were the ideal style a blitzkrieg. A ring-tail cat pondered the scent of our food, our nocturnal friend greeting his guests at only the proper moment. Dawn kissed us awake, and we lazily pulled warm sleeping bags over our heads, hoping for a few more minutes of dreamtime.

We climbed all day. The pace of our pitches was unhurried, methodical. Adventure whispered as wonder when we were unable to decide if we'd picked the wrong crack system. From a large ledge system 800 feet up the face, it grew quiet for a moment as we relaxed in our confusion, an island on this sea of sandstone. That adventure loudly returned as a fist; a large boulder falls from above and chops into one of our ropes like a hatchet. We survive, and then can only smile in return, thankful for the gifts. This beautiful wall was made even more unique for us; the moment's ultimately benign danger delivered us from our narcissistic comfort.

From the summit, we rappel back to the bivy ledge. The Spanish saying: "What's the value in rushing?" Indeed, and what luck! Anyone fancy another evening under The Dipper? We called in that second day of bivy permits, so let’s use it! A feast awaits; cashews and figs in a stuff sack with the packs. There’s more snow for coffee. We can walk home tomorrow. Let’s keep this dream alive, or should I say…let’s keep living the dream.

(NOTE: Readers are urged to clink the link that leads this entry. Chris Brown compiled video footage of the climb from a helmet cam on Josh's helmet, as well as video that Chris shot while following the route. He is also the talented photographer who took the shots I uploaded. The band playing is Pretty Lights, a local DJ/drummer combo that are hugely interesting. Great live show. Comments? I (as well as Chris) would love to get feedback on this story and his blog/video. Thanks for reading.)

The Clamor

2010-05-03T09:14:00.000-07:00

Jesse told me to "get to bloggin'!" Well, it wasn't quite so harsh, but his feelings are well founded. I've ignored Abaluba lately, but I take solace in the idea that I've been working on a longer essay about my Red Rocks experience, as well as running around like a madman lately.

When I got back from Nevada, my workload had piled up and I had a ton of stuff to do. I suppose that'll happen when you leave for a week and don't really tell any of the people you work for/with. I figured that I'd deal with an emergency via Blackberry, and leave the rest for my return. Well, my return was hectic. I was run down after the initial weekend in Vegas, as a body will do after it gets no sleep and dances like a maniac for hours on end. Remember, though, that I spent the next few days hiking back to big routes, and then climbing all day. By the time I was back to CO, I had almost nothing left. I needed some rest.

Unfortunately, I didn't really get that required downtime. As I said, I was so buried at work that I'd get up early to head to the office. After the mind blowing climbs like The Rainbow Wall (mega post to come) I was ultra motivated to train, so after work, I'd head to Movement and work out until late, and then go to bed around midnight. For the week after Red Rocks, this was the program. And then my body shut down.

I started feeling bad on Friday evening, and felt like I was getting the flu. I remember thinking that it must be exhaustion, and my symptoms were mentally derived, but I still felt like hell. I woke up Saturday morning, but couldn't even eat. I just went back to sleep, and stayed prone all day. When I woke up at about 8 PM, I wolfed down some scrambled eggs and a few pieces of toast, caught a basketball game on TV, and then passed out again for another 8 hour nap. All told, I slept for about 36 hours. I woke up Sunday like nothing had happened, and then went climbing with my buddy Mike Patz.

Mike and I also just went out towards Unaweep Canyon and Indian Creek, hopeful that we'd find somewhere in the West that wasn't 40 degrees and raining. Between a power session bouldering on the Plethora boulder in Unaweep, just a quick 15 minutes south of Grand Junction, and then two days of that world class crack climbing in Indian Creek, I'm back to that contented exhaustion. The difference is that this week, I'm going to try to remember to get plenty of rest.

As a quick report, I tried to get back on Quarter of a Man while I was out in the Creek, and just like last time, I fell from the top of the route. It's pretty disappointing to climb 110 feet, have one final hard move, but to be so pumped that you can't even see straight....and then airborne. I took another big whip from the crux, and couldn't help but feel like this single pitch of rock climbing is about as full value and high quality as it gets. "Quarter" is a full 35 meter pitch that runs the gauntlet of those individually-easy-but-cumulatively-crushing sizes...off fingers and super tight hands. I feel like I can do it next try, but given that Rifle season is coming, that might not be until the autumn.

The Creek has been there for a few million years, so I feel pretty secure in my belief that it'll be there in 6 months. By the way, standing out there, looking onto the desert above Canyonlands, it's hard not to be moved nearly to tears. I would have loved to be an Indian, living out there a few thousand years ago, with just my tribe and nature for company. It's still a remarkably beautiful place, and I'm glad I can enjoy it, but the steady stream of cars and tourists (myself included) seem to sully the remote beauty, just a bit. A tough paradox. I love that place, but in so doing, I worry that I diminish it. I only hope that I can respect it's power and beauty when I'm there.

A Baby and a Grade V

2010-04-22T11:52:00.000-07:00

Since my last post, some significant things have happen. The first, and by far the most important event with the most lasting effect, was the birth of a son to my friends Ethan and Tristan. Welcome to the world William James Blackburn!

Ethan sent out a link to a bunch of photos, and it was pretty impressive to click through the gallery and feel the excitement and happiness in each frame. Check him out!

So while my buddy was off starting a family, I was out in the wilds of Nevada, climbing at Red Rocks. With a couple of friends, Chris Brown and Josh Finkelstein, I climbed one of the most incredible routes of my life - The Original Route on The Rainbow Wall, a 14 pitch, 1,200 foot 5.12. The pitches are consistently demanding, but one of the defining memories I have from doing that hefty day of climbing was a sense of mental peace and confidence that we'd be just fine. It wasn't the proximity to Las Vegas that lulled me into a sense of security, but the top of the route is, in fact, visible even from the visual din of The Strip.

Instead, I was able to find an extended meditative state while on the wall, and lean back on years of climbing to confidently climb each pitch. For part of the route, Josh wore a helmet cam, and there is a particular MP4 that shows me finishing a pitch, getting to the belay, and then starting off for my lead. After we'd done the route and had returned to a computer, we checked out some of the footage. The defining characteristic of this sequence was the slow, methodical pace that my brain was processing information. Josh turns basically into a casual observer while I go into the anchor, bring up the tag line for Chris to ascend, take a drink of water, re-rack the gear, and begin to scout the upcoming pitch. At one point, he asks me how much water I have in my small pack, and it takes me roughly 45 seconds to calmly answer "couple of liters."

I thought this illustrated the priorities my mind was able to entertain, and also did a good job of exemplifying the present mindfulness that climbing provides. I wasn't chit-chatting, and I had no time to wonder about work deadlines, soccer scores, or what was on the menu for dinner. I could only deal with the reality as it was currently presented.

We spent two nights up at the wall, bivying at a perfect rock ledge with our heads literally touching the start of the route. The lights of Vegas flicked below, but we were under the muted stars, away from practically all civilization. We did have a ringtail cat to keep us company, though.

After I got back to town from the Red Rocks trip, I kept the momentum going by starting an LLC that I'll use to continue my energy consulting work. Not too much changes, as I'll keep the same clients and do the same work, but the prospect of now running a business with proper formality is exciting. In addition to young William, say hello to Onsight Energy Consulting.

All in all , a big week!

TD/HBI 3

2010-04-05T21:16:00.000-07:00

Just as I took a bite of my fantastic Fancy Medjool Date, I opened my Firefox and up popped the usual homepage of the New York Times. The first story that caught my eye was the policy change voiced by the Commander-in-Chief himself regarding the use of nuclear weapons by the US. I read the first paragraphs of The Times, but then got curious about The Right's take on things.

My new tab went to Fox News. I took a bit of comfort in the fact that my predictive texts ran to The Fox Theater, location for the BLOWOUT at the feet of Pretty Lights a few days back. I manually went to the Fox NEWS homepage, mind racing back through the nostalgia, and checked out Rupert's take on things.

This, for some reason, made me feel better about things. I'm not speaking to the idea that the right set me straight, but more that I'd at least give them a chance to say their piece without preempting their message. Doing so could reasonably be met the charge of irony, hypocrisy even, given my take on Bush's views for when to start a war.

The first disparity between the two articles to jump out at me was that a poll ran just below the link to the article. "YOU DECIDE: Is Obama Limiting Nukes Too Much?"

I didn't see the Times asking for an opinion in close proximity to the link. Maybe they want you to read it first.

The next thing I noticed was that there was a button that would enlarge the text on the page from, what seemed to me, "Perfectly Legible" to "Huge" to "Fucking Outrageous, Are You Kidding Me Grandpa?" And then I remembered that Fox's target audience is the paranoid old-folks who are sure the world's changing too fast, remember kindly the 50's, wonder how America turned into a sissy nation run by cowards, need high powered eye wear kind of demographic.

Finally, as I was reading the Fox piece, the line "(...)signaling a clear break from his predecessors on the issue." A break from Reagan, Bush, and even Clinton. He's more radical than that cheating, lying, womanizing bastard! Obama: taking the country farther than it's ever been!

I like that America's nuclear strategy is guided by someone with the stones to imagine such a place.

Return to the Scene of the Crime

2010-03-29T16:29:00.001-07:00

Julia's timing was perfect. She called me just as I was stranded, awaiting the police, about five steps from where I'd met her. I needed a ride home, because the wheels that had brought me to the Table Mesa Park & Ride that morning were nowhere to be seen.

My ride, at least until that day, was a Cannondale Cyclocross bike that had been tweaked and transformed into a great little city commuter. I'd outfitted the machine with a series of upgrades; flat handle bars for comfortable, upright riding, a chain guard to keep my trousers free from spoke-trauma, and handmade wooden fenders that announced that my functionality was not without form. All of this combined nicely in the bike that I'd wanted for years. Unfortunately, it was exactly what someone else wanted, too. My lock looked to be the victim of some heavy duty bolt cutters, and my bike is now carrying some other, more nefarious, and hopefully accursed, rider. Bastard!

In a way, I should have seen it coming. Not because of any inherent belief that America is made up of a populace where one half lives to screw the other half, although that may in fact be the case. I had all the warning in the world when my friend Nuno opened his mouth that fateful morning. Instead of simply letting me ride my bike up to the bus stop, Nuno's gast was flabbered at the prospect of me leaving the bike locked to the rack. He dutifully informed me that his bike had been stolen from CU just a few years back, and that I might indeed be out of my mind by tempting fate. I assured him that I'd done it for a year, and that there was nothing to worry about. No one else had ever bothered to question me about my cycling habits.

Just as my bar fell from the wall immediately after Brian and I spoke about its precarious position, the bike was nicked the same day that doubt was first cast into the universe. Cast out your lure in the form of verbal suggestion, and see what bites.

I'm a big boy, and I can get over the loss. I've got renters' insurance, and luckily for me, a car. Abby the Subaru is a fine, if not altogether carbon neutral, alternative mode of transport. Things will ultimately work out just fine, and I'll employ my mother's state of mind whenever a dish was broken in her kitchen. She'd say, with a chipper, almost annoyingly placid calm, that when things break (or are stolen by some thieving shitbrain), you get to buy new stuff. A real glass half full kind of optimism. USAA, my insurer, should help me get two wheels back on the road, but even in the face of an insurance settlement that will likely set me nearly whole, I admit that it's occasionally tempting to indulge in those violent, vigilante fantasies of revenge.

My favorite, of late, is set against a pleasant, daytime stroll down the street. A double sided battle axe rests in my hand. Presumably, I'm headed to practice for my upcoming role in a Renaissance Fair. Why the hell else would I be walking down the street carrying an axe? I see the ne'er-do-well coasting smugly on my old beloved blue stallion, and in homage to baseball's spring training, happening in Arizona and Florida at this time of year, I take a little batting practice. Without going into too many gory details, the scene ends with the retrieval of my bike which has rolled gently to a stop in the bushes, and a thief, cloven neatly in two, lying in a deserved sanguine heap in the gutter.

Maybe that blood-lust desire for retribution is inherent in the unconscious male psyche. Braveheart, perhaps. Instead of paining my face blue and running around in a manskirt, I tap into some personal, experience based memory. My mom moved into a small rental house after she split from my dad. The small home was tucked away behind a row of mature pines and sycamores, its electronic contents as inviting to a thief as a shiny commuter bike attached to a rack.

The door was kicked in on three different occasions, each at the hoof of the same crook, and each in rapid succession. The boomboxes and televisions were all replaced, then all restolen. Every time my mom told me that we'd fallen prey to humanity's ugly material cannibalism, I felt the intense longing for my battle axe and that uninterrupted swing plane. Fortunately, as I've gotten older, that sense of disbelief and rage that accompany loss are less and less powerful. They tend to become only dates with nostalgia. "Oh hello," I'll say to my memory, "I remember how this feels."

I acknowledge the familiarity of my inner Mel Gibson. Then I become thankful that I don't have to follow the bitterness of material loss with a searing wonder of a thief's ability to take the terrible situation of recently divorced parents, and somehow make it even worse. There's nothing else to do but shrug and call the cops.

And in that same fog of memory at the pang of loss and victim hood, I stood at Table Mesa and awaited the Boulder Police Department so that I could file an official property loss report. Just before the arrival of Officer Granberg, my phone rang. Julia, and we're back to the start of the blog.

She said she'd come get me and drive me home. I waited for her to make the quick trip up from the University, and then I saw the silver glint of her Toyota. More nostalgia.

She drove up to me as I stood nearly in the same spot where I'd approached her those months ago. She didn't know me yet that day, but in brash ignorance of the fact, I simply approached her and told her she was pretty. We talked pleasantly, but before I asked for her number, I boarded a bus bound for Denver. It hadn't driven 100 yards when I asked the bus driver to let me off so that I could finish my conversation and beg for another date in the future. Fast forward, and then she and I were back at the scene of the crime, about to head to my house and then to dinner and a movie.

Just Say YES to Crack

2010-03-24T11:56:00.000-07:00

I'm back. Back on Abaluba, and back in the desert. I am sorry to the Voyeurs for such a prolonged absence from the blog, and I'm almost as sorry that it's been so long since I've been in The Creek.

I blame it all on Nuno.

He came to Boulder last week as he was driving through from DC to California, and between catching up with him, loving March Madness, and meeting Geovon, Nuno's insanely cool/ridiculous friend (who you can see here, photoshopped into a tub full of scantily clad women), I didn't have much time to post. I have been working on a mega post about thieves, karma, and women, but it's still not ready and you'll just have to wait.

My testosterone laden Portuguese man-crush is also to blame for my return to the incredible crack climbing out here in the Utah desert. I hadn't been since last February, unable to come at all in the fall because of my still too tender ankle. Fortunately, it's finally feeling good enough to jam into cracks and take all of my weight. Since Nuno was on his way Westward anyway, I convinced him to forswear the bouldering pads and take to the tape gloves. He's been a total trooper, and thank god he still remembers how to belay. I had to put his skills to the test on an ultra classic 5.11++ (wink wink) called Quarter of a Man. God I wanted to onsight this climb!

Not to be, though, as at about 100 feet with only 20 to go, I just punted and slipped off of a rest. Those times are not when you're supposed to be falling, but I guess I'm just a Bryant Gumbel. Oh well. That is one of the best climbs I've ever been on, a full 35 meter pitch of rattly fingers and tight hands, with only minimal (though apparently tenuous) rests.

I wanted to do that particular pitch because I thought it would be a good replica of the famed "Enduro Corner" on Astroman on Washington Column out in Yosemite. I have been thinking a ton about my upcoming trip to The Valley, and it's gotten me really motivated to train hard and get proficient at trad climbing, moving fast, and being comfortable on trad climbs of all sizes. That motivation brought me to Quarter, and it also got me on Big Baby.

Big Baby is a fucking towering offwidth, and I'm barely able to type this post out because of the scrapes on the sides of my hands. I haven't ever delved into any pitches that are that wide, and the 100 feet of 4-7 inch MAW beat the hell out of me. There is a pitch called "The Monster Offwidth" up on El Cap that I want to do this summer, so again....training. I learned a couple of really good techniques, and am way more excited to try something like TMW, 2000 feet off the ground, after my battle with Big Baby.

So we're resting today, and then heading back to The Creek in just a bit for a few more days. It's so incredibly nice to be back in such a pretty place with great friends, and this time, motivated to explore some sizes that I typically would shy away from.

Hopefully the remainder of the week will continue to get me honed for California in June, and as soon as I get back, I'll finish up on my mega post. Take care until then!

The DragonChicken

2010-03-11T16:55:00.001-08:00

As I've always feared, a woman was backing me into a corner. Toss. Turn. Whimper in the agony of paralyzing fear, and pathetically hope for the best. The air is heavy with that familiar aroma of sex, but I am sure it is just a trap. "Run for your life," that dependable animal voice bellows from inside my quaking skull. There is no where to go, so I have to settle for restless sleep. I wake occasionally to check that she hadn't run to the kitchen for a knife, and then double check that it isn't hovering above my ribs, ready to dig like a backhoe.

At one of these brief bouts with consciousness, I recognize the siren call of space - a bit of breathing room. She had backed off for a moment, likely to stretch her legs and prepare my demise. What sweet call for domestication would she use as a ploy for my evisceration? First a dog, then likely seven children, my testicles, youth, and dignity. Or maybe she'd ask for a run to Bed Bath & Beyond. I don't know if we'll have time for Home Depot. I'll have time for my own personal hell, that's for sure.

I settle back into wary sleep.

I'm walking through the woods above Boulder. My sanctuary for so long, these trails are familiar in their piney beauty. Huge stone faces, brown and red, loom above and offer me refuge if the need arises. Then, as I round a switchback on my way to those boulders below the Third Flatiron, a mountain lion appears. She's with her cub, and I immediately recognize the danger. Cougars are rough stuff. I know. My roommate's dating one. But if there's one rule, and after all, there's really only one Golden Rule Number One, it's that you don't startle a puma in the company of her junior genes. Shite.

Here she comes, pissed off, all claws and fangs. Thank God I'm wearing my hockey gloves. How'd those get there? Who cares, man! Start swinging. Batman style onomatopoeia. Boom! Bam! Scraaaaw! And she slinks away. Too close for comfort, PattyP. A man's gotta be aware when he roams them hills. Check for damage, and only minor scrapes appear. I flirt with my consciousness again, and then fully embrace it.

Awake now. She's back. That need to move about, away from my prostrate body, must have been extinguished. Now she's gone so far as to throw a leg over my kidneys. Must be where she's aiming with that knife of hers. Christ. Back up, slither. Squirm out from her thigh, and then it's only one slender calf holding me back. Only that, until the cold chill of drywall against my bare ass. Nowhere left to run. And here she comes, sensing me pinned. Again, I drift away.

Now I'm in Old Mother England; the Dark Ages and little hope for prosperity. Peasants by the thousands crowd the dingy town square. Stone buildings, all squat and shoddy, hem us into the tight public space. What the hell are all these people doing here? I see! It's a public execution, and I'm here in my best woolen cloak to bear witness. It's me and all of the other serfs. I slide between the stinking bodies of my neighbors, intent on settling my view upon the stage and the unlucky bastard destined for death.

Oh. My. God. Where the hell did they catch that thing? And I can't believe they are going to try to take its life in full public view. Half proud rooster, half ferocious dragon, the beast is hooded and chained. Thank god it's chained. If that were to get free, we'd all be eaten alive, torn limb from limb.

It snarls, a serpent tongue darting from beneath the black sheet covering the demon's eyes. A razor beak tears at the cloth, and I can feel it searching for me. Just me.

"You!" the executioner exclaims and points me out in the throng. I immediately recognize my fate. I've got another fight on my hands, and have to TCOB. Take care of business. That line comes from my old high school friend, Will Gorman. He was caught by the cafeteria staff in Keystone, a ski resort in Scum-mit County, CO, trying to stuff an entire quarter of a pizza into his face while in the checkout line, presumably so that he wouldn't have to pay for it. When asked what the hell he was doing, he calmly replied "Takin' care of business." The staff made him pay for the pizza, anyway. Now it's my turn to pay.

So I saunter up the creaky wooden stairs, a few thousand eyes searing my back. Face to face with the heaving beast, I look towards the same executioner who'd called me up to the stage. I nod my readiness, and he releases the chains. I put up my fists, ready to fight. Those same golden gloved fists, surrounded in hockey padding and still swollen from my bout with the mountain cat, are again called upon for battle. The hood comes off, the full might of the DragonChicken stares into my soul.

I can't fight that fucking thing! Look at it! I'll be killed!

Quickly, I realize that the only available tool is intimidation. My fists, cinder and stone as they might be, have no chance against such a prehistoric man-eater. I growl. Mind you, this is no normal growl, but everything I've got. I take any desire to live and extrude that hope out through my throat in the deepest, most animalistic intimidation I can summon.

"GRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWLLL!"

And then I awake. Again. Though this time, I'm face to face not with any DragonChicken, but a fair lady who's now staring back at me. Our noses touch, and the last note of my battle cry fades into the midnight. She blinks.
"What the hell?"

I ask her in the morning if she remembers. Ummm, yeah. She does. She assures me that one doesn't forget being awoken by a rabid bedmate, gurgling for space and screaming his "defense against the last great monster."

Maybe I should go back to see my therapist.

TD/HBI 2

2010-03-04T22:02:00.000-08:00

Today's the day. The second Thought of the Day/Half Baked Idea comes at ya, and it's fueled by some incredible new musical scores. Bassnectar for beats, Boombox for grooves. Each of these DJ's seems to have found the perfect beat per second ration..these tracks just melt into your soul.

Just bought a shirt online. I'd been in the market for a new sleeveless T-shirt because I'm a placidly stupid American who has the time to concern himself with his sleeveless T-shirt selection. Further, I've got to worry not only about the shirts, but I need multiples because I'll wear them out climbing on rocks for days on end, and just for fun. Jesus. We've certainly made life easier for ourselves, us humans.

Think about it. We started out as a species out in the wild, just another animal on the steppe. Naked, homeless, and still millennia removed from the invention of the Internet, the beast that allows me to talk in your general direction via keyboard. Damn that information superhighway, I'm sure you're thinking.

So we're out with all the animals, equally at their mercy as to the cold winds blowing through the trees. See those nuts and berries in those trees? Good. Now go eat them. Think you can sling a rock at that bird and kill it? Whip it, Scotty. Dude! You nailed it! Nice job. Now rip off it's feathers and beak, char it over a fire, and let's eat it. Thanksgiving!

For Thanksgiving today, we sit around in our living rooms, eat massive calorie loads, and watch the Cowboys beat the Lions on our gigantic plasma screen TV's that were made in China and then shipped halfway across the world. I'm not trying to say this is a bad thing, but it sure is a far cry from where we've come, and it sure is pretty cushy.

I think that fact that life today has become so easy is what makes me bummed out. There's so little challenge in our basic day to day.

Normally I don't make impulse buys for the reason that doing so makes me feel like just that American.

But then I remember that I bought that shirt to go climbing. Climbing: my salvation and the one thing that feels really fucking hard. I'm not out killing bears, but I can be scared or pummeled and bloodied pretty easily clinging to edges of Granite. I can be reminded that I'm just an animal and am nothing special and that this easy, flaccid life of shopping, the Internet and eventual death by Diabetes is for the birds.

And that takes a little of the sting off my new threads, and the self loathing they bring me.

Fanning's Flamingos

2010-03-01T07:48:00.001-08:00

Even though she was basically a walking corpse, I shouldn't have treated my sixth grade teacher with such abject contempt. In these past fifteen years, I've hopefully gained a modest perspective. Now I think back on Ms. Fanning as someone's grandmother. I imagine her narrative as a tale of an educator who devoted her life to improving the intellectual faculties of Wheat Ridge's youth. When I was 12, however? She was just a dumb old hag getting in between me and my recess.

Up until about sixth grade, I was such a sweet boy. I remember launching my hand skyward at any unsolved blackboard puzzle. Ms. Key, my kindergarten teacher, would direct the class' attention towards my amazing displays of acumen. Same with McNally, Etter, McCall. Misters Fays and Ingram received my utmost respect and attention. My speech was colored with polite deference to each, my homework done with earnest effort. The mere threat of punishment weakened any inkling of mischief I might have been courting.

Wilmore Davis' equivalent to the death penalty was The Bench. This famed purgatory awaited any misbehaving student who incurred the wrath of Mr. Taylor, our lunch room attendant. I remember now that Mr. Taylor was little more than a harmless, wounded veteran there to ensure that no food fights broke out and that schedules ran precisely. Early in my Wilmore career, though, he was the warden to Sing Sing prison, and I dare not piss him off and earn my inaugural trip to "The Bench."

Around the time of my final year in elementary school, something changed in my general attitude. Blame it on the hormones, Beavis and Butthead, or maybe some troubles at home. Whatever the cause, I found myself bereft of any residual innocence. Instead of an intense yearning for a teacher's approval, I went for cheap laughs. Making a spectacle of the situation was far superior to another gold star. I'm sorry, Mike Urbana, that I punched you in the nose because everyone thought you were ugly.

And I'm sorry, too, Ms. Fanning. I'm sorry that I took your stuffed animal, a moose named Bullwinkle, from your desk. I'm not asking you to admit that the name was contrived and unoriginal. I'm just telling you that each time I hid him from you, a little piece of my youth was dying. Sure, it looked like I was taking pleasure in your calls for his safe return as I rolled in laughter. The dismay as you searched the room for his coffee colored hide might have kept a younger, kinder me in check. Instead, I loved to sneak him onto high shelves, behind bookcases, or, most maliciously, dangling from the cord on the projector screen, a noose around Bull's neck. My fellow students loved to see you searching, and I knew they basked in that light by an act of my bratty hand.

Towards the end of the school year, any veil of respect I maintained finally disintegrated. Field Day was approaching, and God how I loved Field Day. How could I not, a youth with boundless energy and a penchant for sports? Indeed, some of my fondest memories revolve around that springtime tradition. The ribbons, the return of warm air. It meant that another year was upon us. With it, a slightly bigger, faster, more rambunctious me.

Back when I was still a decent child, when Ms. Etter was my teacher and the Fourth Grade my home, I was allowed to carry the flag during the National Anthem. Had you been in the crowd that day, you might have thought I had been awarded a Silver Star from then-President Clinton himself. The pride on my face must have looked positively awkward, given the fact that I was merely walking across a crumbling basketball court with a five foot long wooden flag pole driven into my belly. Even more awkward was my sock selection. Mid-calf, forest green. I'm an iconoclast, what can I say?

Again, a sweet memory derived from Field Day. My seventh birthday, September 10, 1988. My recollection tells me a story of my father. He knows I love Field Day so dearly that he themes a party for me and my friends based upon the idea of an Olympiad of sorts. An autumn Field Day with ribbons for footraces, basketball marksmanship, a bean bag toss. My father understood just what I wanted, and without my insistent asking, he gave it to me.

I don't really know if that's how things went down. It very could well be that the party was my mother's idea. Even if my theory that my father truly connected with me that day is false, I'll keep it. There are few times when I feel so close to him.

But then fast forward roughly half a decade, and I wasn't the young, giggling son I once was. This new incarnation was seated in the front row of Ms. Fanning's class; close enough to be supervised. Far enough away, I'll also note, from her desk; abode of one now tattered and soiled stuffed animal with a name lifted from a cartoon.

And on this magnificent spring day, only a week before the whole of Wilmore Davis poured out onto the spacious green behind the school for a full day of recreation and competition preempted only by a pledge of allegiance to a flag held aloft by some unsullied soul, each class selected a mascot. Behind these self ascribed monikers, etched with associated art and pertinent information (grade, teacher's name) onto a large piece of butcher paper, the whole class would parade into the anticipating vision of parents.

Ms. Fanning held the chalk in her bony fingers preparing to list our suggestions. We were 12, and the limits of our creativity, even collectively, were oppressive. Alliteration seemed to garner much attention as the hopeful called out their best attempts to name our class.

"Fanning's Flames!" A cheer rang out. Swiftly, though, as it's wont to do, the rumor mill claimed a victim. Mr. Fisher, the fellow sixth grade teacher, was just across the hall. It was a known fact that he would consider just such a nickname.
Nix the fire.

"Fanning's Flamingos." Oh! Intriguing. A bit unorthodox, and while normal behavior dictates the selection of mascots sporting teeth, a stilt legged pink bird might be just the thing to tame banality. Flamingos it might be...

"Fanning's Panthers": alliteration be damned. "Fanning's Wildcats": traditional, and again forswearing the "f." "Fanning's Flatworms," "Fliers," and "Fiends." All could be considered. Surely we as a class could improve upon these suggestions. Perhaps my hat belonged in the ring.

I found myself drawn to the alliteration, perhaps out of habit after being inured with Key's Kickers, McNally's Monsters, Etter's Eagles, and McCall's Macaws. What could I possibly suggest that could compete with a semester and a half of animal abduction? How could I enumerate my hurt at the irony of my father's introduction to my "wicked" stepmother at, you guessed it, Field Day. That fucking traitor! That was our day!

"Ha!" I thought. "That old bag of bones won't even know what I mean, I'm so smart." The hubris rattled in my brain like a grenade. "Fanning's Ferocious Fellatios." I offered quietly. A secret between an old woman, those two lucky students seated adjacent, sadly ignorant of the punchline's definition, and myself.

"Are you sure you want to name our class that?"

My inside joke with myself became instantly less funny when she was in on the ruse. I'd put the final nail in the coffin of Field Day's mystique, though she politely let it drop.

We marched onto the fields led by a pink bird of doom. In several weeks, we'd relinquish this playground for youth's ultimate space; summer. We were finished with Wilmore Davis. And I've no doubt, it was ready for me to go.

There's a Lesson Here

2010-02-22T15:44:00.000-08:00

My original plan was to see the email arrive on my Blackberry, and immediately get to work on a post detailing my reactions to the news from Berkeley's graduate school. I wanted to keep the email unopened, write an introduction, and then essentially press "pause" while I read the news. I'd then finish the post accordingly. My reaction was going to be vivid, immediate, unscripted.

But then, I was at work when I got the email from the ERG graduate group, the office who's decision to admit or deny me into their program would largely determine the next few years of my life. Williams doesn't allow me to access my blog from the office, so I was kind of stuck. I really wanted to find out their decision and post the blog according to my formula, but waiting until I got home from work to post seemed like an eternity. After about 5 minutes of agony, I said "The hell with it," and opened the news.

____________

Growing up, soccer was everything to me. The games, the practices, and the teammates largely defined my physical reality, as well as my social scene. I played club soccer until high school, then moving into an even more rabid mode consisting of Wheat Ridge High School games during the fall, and then played on a club team for the remaining eight months. I would practice five days a week with the same 15 or so guys. I'd known all of them since we were toe-headed rug-rats terrorizing teams from the neighboring suburbs like some sort of white, privileged gang warfare.

Once we got about halfway through high school, our club team fell apart. That same tight knit group that had played together for years would all be funneled into another club, and we were thrown in with about 30 other unfamiliar guys in a massive tryout. The powers that be would form three new teams without a guarantee that the old friends from Wheat Ridge would stick together.

I remember the tryout as a nerve wracking experience. I'd soon be scythed away from some of my best friends. Things went predictably awry, and I ended up on the second of the three teams. Solace came in the fact that a couple of my close friends were also on that team, but I watched as about five familiar faces were given first team jerseys. I hated to see them dissipate onto another team almost as much as I suffocated under my wounded pride. Bitter poison, knowing you're second tier.

The night we were assigned to our teams, many of us ended up meeting over at a friend's house. I wasn't sure if I really wanted to go, but I figured it would look pretty bad if I got cut and then didn't show up. I opted to take my medicine and go congratulate the one's who'd made the "A" team. When I got to the party, I walked towards the group of assembled players but couldn't say a word. I could only put my head down and cry. Keep in mind, I was 16 years old. I think I've always been a total pussy.

I played one season with the "B" team, and eventually found that the lowered pressure and reduced expectations were probably a good thing. Our coach was an erudite ex-pro who, instead of X's and O's, had us watch Glengarry Glen Ross as a means of explaining what it meant to close the deal and win a game. We flew to a tournament in California, but this location was selected primarily so that the team could enjoy the beaches, and not necessarily picked for the quality of the competition. When we played the "A" team during the season, they beat us 5-3. It didn't seem to matter that much. I think the mood following our defeat sprung from the fact that the game fell the day after a funeral held for a classmate. Soccer, for me, was beginning to matter less and less.

After that club season, I realized that a schedule of 200 or more days a year of games, practices, and singular focus were overrated. I decided to pull the plug on my club career, opting to play on our school's team during the fall, but trading my shin guards for a helmet during the spring's lacrosse season. My Junior and Senior years of high school allowed me to ebb and flow with the seasons. In large part, I was able to avoid a total burnout from uninterruptedly kicking a ball. I found that I loved lacrosse, too, and this break let me refresh my desire to play other sports. My passion for soccer would be reignited at the end of each summer, and though my skills were somewhat blunted, they'd come back waving a flag of realization that I wasn't ever going to play for Real Madrid or Chelsea, anyway.

_______________________

Trading soccer for lacrosse led to an interesting fallout. I ended up looking at colleges before my senior year of high school, and relished the idea of playing club lacrosse at a university. This probably played a part in my decision to go to St. Louis, and that certainly led me to Spain. Spending time in Europe sparked my love of climbing, and also introduced me to my two best friends. I can't complain about how it worked out.

As I digest the news that I didn't get accepted into Berkeley, I'm trying to remember the lessons I learned a dozen years ago. I'm not going in the direction I thought I would, but there is a greater good that will come out of this. To start, I am somewhat relieved that I don't have to move away from Boulder. I've come to adore my friends here, and find such comfort within this incredible climbing community.

Within just a few minutes of posting the news on Facebook, two good friends have offered the autumn alternatives of Burning Man and a climbing trip to The Valley. And you know what? I think I'm taking them up on them both. If I'm not going to school, I'm still going to live big.

Dispatch from the Field

2010-02-17T19:05:00.000-08:00

I love how many comments that first TD/HBI generated. Thanks, Voyeurs!

Over these last two days, I've been out on the Western Slope. Work had been piling up while I was skiing in Jackson, and I had to run out for meetings with the Federales and Exxon in Meeker and BFE. Fortunately, neither Robert nor Cody were interested in awkward pseudo-dates a la my previous work junket, and I've largely put any such interaction out of my mind through thousands of dollars in therapy.

While I've been driving around the natural gas fields north of Rifle, I've had two distinct ideas bouncing around in my head like superballs.

First, I sure wish it was climbing season. Driving around just a few miles from The Canyon without my climbing gear in the car is torture. Ok, Ok, honesty alert: It's in there. Rope, shoes, harness, quickdraws. I just can't use any of them. There's snow on the ground, a chill in the air, and little call for climbing outside the temperature controlled confines of Movement Climbing and Fitness. Maybe that's what's so painful.

I have had a few days of climbing outside this winter, sure, but the weather this winter hasn't been nearly what I'd been hoping for. It seems like every January and February bring a week or two of mid 50's, and a promise of an early spring. This year, there's been no such luck. A couple of those days of outdoor climbing have come in the form of Hueco bouldering, and if you've got to drive nearly to Mexico, I'm not sure it counts.

When I'm not worrying about when the air will warm, allowing me to trade skis for that harness in my trunk, I've been thinking about school. Berkeley is supposed to let me know my enrollment status (in or out) at some point in February or early March. I'm not necessarily the most patient person, and now that we're more than halfway through that first month, I'm ready for news.

The two alternatives keep cropping up in my mind, and it's hard for me not to get anxious thinking about what my life is going to be like based upon a decision made by strangers that's entirely out of my hands. I'll bounce between a belief that I'll be accepted, be told of a deadline by which I'll have to be in CA, and find the freedom for my hedonistic, recreational tendencies to run rampant until classes start. Further, my buddy Nuno is going to be living in the Bay Area come autumn, and if all things align, we might end up spending time in the same house as a depraved pair of roommates. I guarantee it will be a house of horror and sin, and one (or both) of us will be arrested or killed (or both.)

Quickly after those visualizations of climbing trips, pal pow-wow's, and educational/intellectual demand fade, I sink back into the understanding that only about 5 percent of applicants get into the program. The strength of my application and experiences may matter not at all in the face of fierce competition from an accomplished pool of perspectives aiming for admission into one of the best grad schools in the country. I have nothing else to do but pull back from my pending move and admit that I might very well be spending the summer doing exactly what I've been doing this past year: traveling, climbing, and having a blast with great friends.

Wait, that's not so bad, either. And come to think of it, summer will likely play out identically, regardless of Cal's call.

I can't even say which reality I'd prefer. Both of these outcomes are sure fire ways to continue to push my life in a direction that I can be proud of. Either path will be rewarding. But what I really want right now is a clear picture of what my fate's going to be over this next year or two.

Soon enough, I suppose.

The Maiden Voyage

2010-02-15T21:01:00.000-08:00

Boys and Girls! Voyeurs and Voyettes! Welcome back from your adventures along the gray cliffs, the golden shores, and the toils of the fields. You've stumbled back to Abaluba, and with it, the first installment of TD/HBI. I implore you to make a strong decision in your life, put down your work, and read the following rambles. These ideas might not always be connected, but I hope to heaven that you'll find them entertaining.

What kind of person are you? The question is too damn vague, and if I don't shepherd you towards my intended response, you'll wander the woods like a herd of cats, pouncing on mice and looking cuddly, but wriggling with ringworm and quick to bite. I need you to winnow down your essence, and decide between being Spontaneous and Formulaic. Neither answer is good or bad, in my mind. And truthfully, I'd love to hear your comments.

The question stems from a conversation my roommate and I just had concerning relationships. We were talking about friends of ours that had gotten engaged after a short period of time with boy/girlfriends, and, separately, the relative commonplace that we find among the ages of women who almost always determine they want children.

I asked Brian if he could empathize with his cousin's decision to marry her boyfriend of only six months. He could not. His response had nothing to do with his opinion of either his cousin or her boyfriend, of both he spoke highly. In fact, Brian was more concerned that the pair hadn't had sufficient time to "learn" the intricacies of the other's behavior and personality.

We reasoned that in general, there could only be two responses to such a decision. Either "you know when you know," trusting in the intuition of the body when presented with a person/relationship, or you believe that in fact that there's a certain number of interactions you need with someone before you largely are able to predict their response to a certain stimuli. Once you can predict their responses, you can then determine if this outcome, presented a certain percentage of the time, is something you can deal with in a partnership.

Brian said he felt that the latter was his perception. I find it really interesting that this is how he approaches rock climbs, specifically projecting routes of a certain grade. Brian will approach each climb with a very strategic plan for eventually redpointing the route. His training regimen leading up to his eventual success on the route will have a designed proportion of endurance, power/bouldering, anabolic and anaerobic components. He'll have done a certain number of routes at varying levels of difficulty proceeding his desired project. He perceives and runs his life largely the same way he spends his energy towards his greatest passion - climbing.

When he asked me how I saw things, I told him I'd like to think you know when you know, but in fact I was probably more mechanical. Largely, I believe you can control a situation and engineer certain desired outcomes based upon behavior. I find it very interesting, however, that my biggest conflicts during serious relationships have been times when I go straight from emotion to action, effectively neutering my ability to analyze and prepare myself, planning my actions. I'm no longer behaving in a way designed, so to speak, to bring me the most "good."

And the second behavioral concept we were talking about might be entirely driven by hormones. Take that with a grain of salt and the reality that it could very well be an uneducated and misinformed judgment by the author when he speaks of a group he doesn't usually understand: women.

My friend Jesse (boy) has heard of a a theory, and is fond of passing it along, that when women turn 31.5, they have a chemical change that says they want a kid. First of all, 31.5 is a great number, as it sounds so precise and scientific. It's probably just an ingenious detail that provides a great hook, or at least some sort of rounding for average.

If a woman is 31.5, her biological odds of having a healthy baby are widely understood to begin to decrease dramatically. It seems plausible to believe that through evolution, humans have come to largely exhibit similar behavior. So normal a group can't be spontaneous in the face of estrogen, testosterone, progesterone, and human chorionic gonadotropin. Can they?

This isn't to say that ALL 31.5 year old women will all feel the exact same way about kids. Lots of them may, though, and that might be enough to wonder if, in general, similar demographics are going to turn out a certain way most of the time.

Speaking of Jesse...he is a third grade teacher, and will ask his kiddos a "question of the day." He'll write the question on the board and provide a list of possible answers, and the kids move a name tag into the answer with which they most agree. Some of his recent questions:
Q: What Would Make Colorado a Better Place (Pick one)
A1: Monkeys
A2: The Beach
A3: Disneyland
A4: Volcanoes
A5: Dinosaurs

(Q: The sad winner? A3)

I wonder if he'll ask the kids if A1: humans are willing to throw caution to the wind, marry a sweetheart and knock her up when she's 24 (regardless of whether she's biologically facing a deadline,) or A2: are we nothing more than robots programmed with an identifiable quota of chemicals and experience that make us all largely predicable. Me? I'll always vote for the stegosaurus. A5.

Whatcha reckon?

In a perhaps related twist of my neurons, I've been wondering if I'll find a woman with whom I'll finally fall totally in love. Will she come to pass me in a supermarket, smile a dashing hello and turn out to intertwine so perfectly with my heart that I'll find it impossible to walk away? Or will I merely wake up one day and decide that another year of solitary bachelorhood is something I couldn't abide, finally feeling the comfort in certainty when I decide, once and for all, that an 84/100 is a very winnable hand, and I might as well throw in my chips to make sure.

Jackson Equipment Troubles

2010-02-11T10:06:00.000-08:00

Getting back up to Wyoming with my buddy Ethan has largely been a great time. Fortunately for the visual integrity of this blog, we've taken a bunch of pictures. Some of the good ones are attached. We've also been eating great food, drinking lots of beer, and skiing a ton. Well, we had been skiing a ton. He's up on the mountain right now, and I'm running around town, pissed off at all of my stuff.

I've broken a binding that's been giving me trouble all season, and am about to head over into Idaho (just over Teton Pass, not nearly the journey I make it out to be) where they're made to try to get the manufacturer to warranty the trouble. But that's really the minor trouble, given my spare pair of skis in the car. I was able to swap the bindings and not miss a beat. The real trouble began yesterday when i was getting ready to call it a day and flying down the mountain on the tamest run of the day, some groomer named Hanna.

Like a sniper had taken me in his sights and pulled the trigger, I hit the ground before I knew anything irregular had happened. After sliding down the snow for about 200 feet, snow all down my pants but physically fine, I looked down at the damage to try to figure out what the hell happened. My boot had broken in a crucial place, and the tongue was torn from the shell. Oops. I was leaning into the turn right when the plastic gave way, and I'm just glad I didn't get hurt.

I've got to rent a pair of boots for the last day of skiing tomorrow, but luckily there's a shop that has what I need, and snow is in the forecast. Hopefully, lots of it, because the snowpack is pretty bony right now. Oh well.

Jackson Report

2010-02-09T08:19:00.000-08:00

Well, wireless at the condo in Jackson is weak. Ethan and I raced down to The Bunnery, a little bakery in town with an internet connection, and we're currently inhaling croissants and coffee. About to head out for a mellow ski day touring on Teton Pass, and just wanted to give a little nod to my Voyeurs and let you know I didn't forget about ya.

The snow is a little bare, but we've been blessed with insane views of the Grand and nice, spring-like conditions.

More soon, hopefully.

En Route

2010-02-04T07:20:00.000-08:00

I'm out of town again, this time headed towards Jackson Hole for a week of skiing with my buddy, Ethan. I rarely just go somewhere on vacation without trying to finagle work into paying for it, so I'm in Glenwood now, Meeker in a few hours, and Rock Springs tonight. Before I ski at the foot of the Tetons, I make a quick trip over to Grand Rapids, MI for a funeral. Busy busy.

I want to share a couple of quick ideas before I hop into Abby and hit the road. First, there have been requests from a few readers to post a "Thought of the Day" or some other kind of half-baked idea. Not necessarily a full blown blog post, but certainly something that The Voyeurs can check in on and hopefully get a quick laugh. I like it, and I'm going to try it out. I'll play with the headers so you'll know what to look for, but maybe TD/HBI or something...
I might not be able to get something posted each and every day, but without the pressure of needing to come up with a full blown story, it should be easy to get three or four of these each week, in addition to my regular posting.

Now one quick story about this current journey to the West Slope and Wyoming. I work with this team of surveyors and engineers out of Rock Springs, WY, but I've never met them face to face. I thought that since I'd be through town, I would love to stop in their office. This way, I could introduce myself and put faces with the names and voices I talk to on a daily basis.

In this survey/engineer team, there are really two individuals I have consistent contact with. There is a crusty, wizened old man who seems like he knows every answer to any technical question, and his sidekick, a woman who does a ton of the drawings and finished products (maps and spreadsheets.) I use their documents all the time, and feel like I'm asking them for all kinds of help on design questions.

I called the woman to tell her my travel plans, and ask if they'd be in the office Thursday night around 5 or 6. She said they would, and we both agreed that it would be nice to meet up. I suggested I take the two of them out to dinner to say thanks for all the work they do for Williams. When they're not churning out drawings for pipelines, the older gentleman will occasionally send out emails detailing his vacation plans, and I have talked to her on the phone now for over a year, slowly learning some of the details of her life, as well. She'll talk about family vacations, as well, and tell me about her two sons, both my age.

After our phone conversation, I got an email from the woman, and she was pretty flustered. She wasn't sure what the context was that I had asked her to dinner. I sent back an email trying to diffuse any embarrassment or confusion, simply stating that I'd love to meet anyone from the office and that things were very informal. To have kids my age, she has to be at least 50, and I realized that she'd never met me. I like to think that I can handle myself on the phone like a proper adult, but she has no idea I'm 28 and look like I'm about 22. It might come as a surprise to her. I guess she thought I was asking her out on a date....oops.

Tonight might be an interesting dinner....I'll keep you posted.

The Project Dilemma

2010-01-28T12:25:00.000-08:00

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.

Losing It

2010-01-20T21:06:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-01-16T10:02:00.000-08:00

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.

West Mountain

2010-01-12T21:21:00.000-08:00

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.

East Spur

2010-01-08T21:03:00.000-08:00

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.

Hell Paso and the House of Doom

2010-01-08T09:05:00.000-08:00

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!

NASA Lift Off, Bird Calls, and Visions of Hueco

2010-01-05T09:52:00.000-08:00

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.

Falling from Grace

2009-12-22T23:01:00.001-08:00

Lately, I've been really interested in Magnificent Bastard. I linked to it in my "Neck for Green" post on 12/8. I like their blog for fashion advice, certainly, but also as a good diversion when work gets slow. Aside from direction on sartorial splendor, MB has an entire lifestyle, Artful Dishevelment, in mind. This certainly manifests in alcohol consumption.

(If you're looking for another great blog, one strictly devoted to fashion, I'll suggest The Sartorialist. Special thanks to Kathy for opening my eyes to it.)

I'm not exactly a party animal, but as any twenty something might, I enjoy an adult beverage now and then. During the summer, I'll pay homage to my British blood (Welsh, specifically) and defeat the stifling heat through a powerful concoction of gin mixed with tonic, topped with fresh lime. As the weather has turned, though, I've been less assured. I could always turn to my old friends Stout and Porter, but what is an aspiring Bastard to do when he feels the need for a proper cocktail as the snow comes down? The advice, it turns out, is to call for a Manhattan.

My friend Dan keeps the bar at a great Italian trattoria called Radda here in Boulder, and we've been comparing notes recently on how to prepare a most Magnificent winter drink. Dan suggests mixing your favorite Kentucky whiskey with Carpano Antica sweet vermouth, select bitters, and bourbon soaked cherries. I, in turn, suggest you follow Dan's suggestion. My only addition? Keep your barware and booze safe from harm. I've recently paid a hefty price for my ignorance of this pressing issue.

Forget Copenhagen, health care, or a soaring deficit that will eventually cripple the financial viability of America. The real killer at the end of 2009 is an immutable notion that scientists, such as myself, call gravity. I'll spare you the technicalities and acceleration rates (and save myself countless trips to Wikipedia, er, my expensive collection of scientific texts. Perhaps you've heard of the classic treatise, "High School Biology"?)

Over the past few years, I've been accumulating supplies for a proper bar that any young gentleman could be proud of. Certainly some of these details came in the form of gifts, as was the case for my wine glasses. My father is an aficionado, and I believe took great joy from passing along glasses that would diffuse the subtle aromas of Pinot, Bordeaux, or Nebbiolo. My stepbrother has been kind enough to keep me well stocked with fine gin. I've supplemented with various bottles and other glassware, and most recently, I was given four fantastic low ball old-fashioned glasses that looked perfect with three cubes of ice, and two fingers of liquor. The combination left me one happy Bastard.

To celebrate this final touch, I had Dan to the house on Saturday night for a drink after he finished a shift at the restaurant. I'd been keeping this collection up on a shelf about 15 feet inside the front door as a welcome to any guest. Dan arrived and saw the new glasses, nodded his approval, and we took down the necessary pieces for a great Manhattan. As we sat around catching up, I felt myself almost detach from the conversation in an attitude of contentment. This is exactly the situation I'd hoped would accompany my bar; the facilitation of friendships, and their solidification over good cocktails.

I awoke the next morning having hatched a plan to go climbing with Dan up at the Industrial Wall, our second trip in as many weeks. I was in the kitchen, making breakfast and preparing for my day outside when I noticed the two glasses from the night before, now dry, on a towel near the sink. I returned them to their spot on the top shelf, reaching past the coffee beans, grinder, and tea on the shelf below. I looked at my roommate Brian and told him that I thought the bottom shelf was looking a little haggard.

"We'll be fine if that one falls off the wall, I guess, but if the top one goes, we're hosed."

Some things you can't take back, once uttered. I should have kept my mouth shut. Not more than 5 minutes later, coffee still hot and cereal still crisp against the milk, there was a crash. Not the innocuous clattering of caffeinated beans over tile, or even the shrill clank that our aluminum stove-top espresso maker would have sounded. This was the unmistakable violence of glass. And then, the incredulous silence of two roommates wondering what the hell had just happened.

Damnit. I've been picking up shards of glass for days.

A Hero's Journey

2009-12-15T07:36:00.000-08:00

On Sunday, I slogged up the hill to The Industrial Wall with my buddies Dan and Kate. The forecast was enormously optimistic, calling for partly sunny skies and temps near 50. That sounded like a Spring Break foray to Cancun after the sub zero ice-fest we've recently had in Boulder. Dan wanted to work on a route called Vogue and I was game to get outside after being resigned to the gym ever since returning from KY. Kate didn't necessarily want to climb, but she'd been out of town for the past 10 days and was psyched to cheer her boyfriend on the super-project.

I had talked to Dan on Saturday night so we could make plans. I was optimistic, and knew that the wall only got sun from roughly 11:00 until 3:00, so we'd have to make the most of the warming daylight. I asked him, "Should I should swing by at 8:30, 9:00?" We planned for 9:30 and a full day of rock climbing. I went to sleep with my bag packed, and a building excitement for climbing at one of Boulder's premiere crags (just after Movement Climbing and Fitness). Then I woke up at 10:00 on Sunday morning.

Goddamnit. There are few things worse than waking up and already being late. There's no relaxed cup of coffee, no patient review of the headlines. There's running. There's rushing. There's poor sandwich making. And there's me, looking at my phone, volume turned to "Silent" in an attempt at restful sleep the night before, shaking my head.

I suppose the cold that I'd been fighting explains the fact that my body demanded, and ultimately received, a full 11 hours of sleep. At least I didn't require 13, because then I'd have really been late. My Subaru raced towards Dan and Kate's place in Eldo while I worked the Blackberry. I'd be there soon, I told them. Thanks for waiting, I apologized. Look, it's Blake, I exclaimed.

Blake was driving out of the canyon, away from the climbing. We waved each other down to a stop and our cars managed a full road block on the highway. No one else was driving there at the moment, so there were no fatalities, nor even honked horns. Blake was pissed and complaining, in large part due to two particular stimuli. First, he couldn't find anyone to climb with, Boulder being filled with such soft wankers. Second, that's what Blake does. It's almost endearing in its predictability. Gym ropes suck. Weather sucks. The job market sucks. I suck. Oh well.

I tried to alleviate his first source of irritation by inviting him to head up the hill with us. He figured it might be worth a try, and turned his car around. We met Dan and Kate, they seemed perfectly unfazed with my (and now our) late arrival, and we started the hour-long slog through the snow towards the train tracks high on the mountain above.

The Industrial Wall is about as remote a sport climbing destination as I'll visit. The first part of the hike is a road, and then there's some stomping through a meadow, and then you've got to head straight up the side of a mountain to some train tracks. That sounds easy, but after a couple of weeks of snowy weather, the path was anything but clear. Fortunately for me, I came armed with gaiters to ensure I looked like a jackass, and approach shoes with a tread as bald as Telly Savalas' head. These ensured I'd slip-slide my way in the general direction of "up" without much discernible progress. On the bright side, I only lost my footing and hit the ground once. Sad, thought, that this tumble ended with me in a yucca plant, blood oozing from three precise holes in my left palm. In their own sanguine language, they said three words:

Get. New. Shoes.

When I finally arrived at the train tracks, I smiled in the satisfaction that ahead was only a short train tunnel (one can just see the light coming from the other end), and then the crag. (Yes, there was the minor detail that I'd have to survive this dark walk, as trains have the unpleasant propensity to barrel through from time to time.) Dan and I waited and talked for a moment, each happy to wait for Kate as she, too, slogged up the final stretch. Blake had already come and gone, his general annoyance manifest as rabbit quick steps up the hill, his new boots allowing grip. Just as Kate was about to pop over the final steep bit and arrive for the home stretch, Blake walked back towards us, appearing like a ghost out of the tunnel.

He'd been through to the other side, looked up at the crag, and decided that it was too windy, too cold, and that the sun, in fact, had given way to snow. The weather man was a goddamn fascist prick bastard, and he was going home. Adios. On the bright side, an hour prior while we were still at the car he had seen my ski poles in my trunk, and used them to ease his ascent up the hill. I asked for their return to ease my pending descent, thereby completing my transition from Magnificent Bastard to dork. With my full regalia of backpacker nerditude, I waved Blake adieu and started through the tunnel, Dan and Kate just behind.

As we made our way up the cliff, it became apparent that in spite of the predictability of Blake's disdain, his observation was 100% correct. It was COLD! And snowing. And windy. And what-the-hell-we-shoulda-just-gone-to-Movement-this-really-does-suck. Watching the snow flakes come down with ever increasing ferocity, the three remaining rock pioneers resigned to finish our tea and call it a day. Dan held out some hope that the clouds were breaking, but Kate and I looked at each other and shook off his optimism. Our psyche was gone, and we were ready to throw in the towel. We headed back through the tunnel, risking literal train-wreck a third time. As soon as we popped out into the light, though, Dan looked up towards the hill and saw sun instead of snowflakes. "Guys!" Vogue looked like it might, in fact, be viable if only we'd believe, only give a little more. What was in it for Kate and Me? An allusion to JFK and McNamara, we'd come this far...why not throw a few more bodies at the problem. Once more unto the breach, dear friends.

Dan and I both tried to do the warm up pitch with wooden toes and numb fingers, and Kate just slumped into a heap. An artist, her original plan was to sketch, but her fingers were too cold to even grip the pencil. Remember the light that was in such short supply? Well, it was fading. Nonetheless, Dan booted up and went to work on his project. He was in full Rifle mode; working the moves and taking an understandably-yet-painfully long burn. I was bundled in goose down, but even still, as he lowered to the ground after his climb, I was finished. Dan was roundly thankful for the team's sacrifice, and for that I'm appreciative. I don't mind giving up a day to a buddy, but it's nice when he notices.

With that, we slid back down the hill into the growing dusk. We threw a few snowballs and shared some stories of mountain lion attacks as we walked through the woods, eventually arriving back at my trusty steed, Abby the Subaru. Dan and Kate then had friends to their house, and any sacrifice I might have made during the climbing day was repaid in bourbon, ginger bread, and roasted chicken. The scales were fully made equal, and I smiled at the interesting friends I've made.

Risking My Magnificent Neck in Search of Green

2009-12-08T19:44:00.000-08:00

Greetings, Voyeurs. Abaluba hasn't been very well connected to the home base in Boulder lately, with something like 90% of the recent posts coming from Kentucky. We're going to keep the peripatetic propensity alive with my first ever correspondence from the bustling metropolis of Alamosa. I'm holed up in the shadow of Colorado's southern behemoths, the Peaks Blanca and Little Bear. The San Luis Valley is typically bathed in sun, making it alternatively an agricultural breadbasket in the fields, and a replica of the Sahara along the shimmering sands of the Great Sand Dunes National Park.

That sun power is why I've driven down here, ironically through the teeth of a blizzard. A client has proposed a solar field just out of town, and I've come down to do some research in the courthouse. I'm psyched to help them get those electrons to market, especially since my Berkeley application referenced the work I've done in the realm of solar energy.

Legitimizing my resume wasn't the only reason to make the trek down from the home base. I've got bills to pay! Yesterday, I was out on Pearl Street grabbing a bite with my friend Dan when I walked past a great menswear store, Kinsley & Co. They are, or I should say were, right on Broadway at Pearl, and are (were) attached to the only Orvis retailer in Boulder. This shared retail space was practically the only reason I'd previously set foot in the place, though not for lack of desire for Kinsley's fine threads. In fact, I would lust. Sportcoats that boast tags with commas and cashmere wool from Italy are spendy, to say the obvious, and beautiful, to say the least. They are also just a bit beyond me. At least they were, until the economy went to hell and people quit buying things.

I'd been in the market for a number of wardrobe pieces for a long while. For the last couple of years, I've been looking for a dress coat, something in the overcoat or pea coat family. A blazer of sportcoat was also high on my list, and I recently realized the urgency even more pointedly when I got to the office sporting a tie (in homage to my Mad Men fetish) but only able to bundle in a ratty puffy coat still reeking of campfire. As Christmas lists are being put together this time of year, I figured I'd ask my folks, er...Santa, for some dough to offset the cost.

I had been consulting various sources to narrow down the search. First, my two gay uncles have provided plentiful insight. One talked me through some of his favorite styles, but then shed some light on a fashion blog called Magnificent Bastard. It's nice to get some unadulterated fashion advice that also happens to be pretty entertaining. During slow minutes at work, I'll check this website out and hope my picture doesn't make an appearance under the ultimate pejorative tag: Toolbag. So far, that space has been reserved for that bozo Jon, ex-husband to Kate, and father of eight.

Back at Kinsley, I had Dan the Man Mirsky with me. Dan's got plenty of style and swagger, so I was happy to have him as a source of confirmation for the stuff I was trying on. The owner and I began to talk about what I was looking for, and he took me to the rack of jackets. There were only two sportcoats in my size: 40 Long. The first one didn't exactly jump out at me, but he pulled the other off the rack and said, almost wistfully, "This is one of the nicest pieces I've ever had in the store." All the sales pitch I needed. He walked away, and I held a 100% cashmere sportcoat in my hands, its price tag reduced over a grand.

I pulled it on, looked in the mirror, and was instantly glad I'd waited to find the perfect jacket. It felt made specifically for my skinny torso, and the colors in the thread make it well suited for pants that run anywhere from jeans to gray, wool dress slacks. Thank you very much, Great Recession.

As I was walking towards the register, a rack of pea coats caught my eye, and I slipped on a beautiful import from Italy. I sure wasn't planning on filling the closet with the fur of pampered continental sheep, but someone had to do it, I suppose.

I may die a sad, painful death at the hands of a warmed planet and under the banner of a neutered ex-superpower, but at least I'll do so looking like one Magnificent Bastard.

Return to Mountain Time

2009-11-29T21:12:00.000-08:00

I drove back to Colorado after spending the Thanksgiving holiday at the family farm in central Missouri. Drinking Miller Lite and stuffing myself with turkey and, appropriately, stuffing, was a fine way to draw an end to the time in Kentucky. I'd spent a month climbing my ass off, concerned almost exclusively with the weather (perfect), climbs (sublime), food (plentiful, simple, flavorful) and sleep (as many hours as I wanted). Over the holiday, I had the chance to turn my attention to family and a gradual reintegration to the responsibilities of home.

Hanging out inside with my large extended family was fun, but the expansive farm allowed me plenty of time to reflect on what had just passed as I hiked around the woods. The month at The Highlander was, in all honesty, one of the best times of my life. I like to think of myself as fair and balanced, much like Fox News, though without the right-wing demagoguery and implied racist vitriol. As such, it's hard for me to think I'm being entirely fair, totally balanced, when I say that the whole month was basically picture perfect. If I have to nitpick, I suppose I could be bummed that I never was able to send Table of Colors. Sure, it would have been cool to do a 13a on the trip, and I put enough burns into that climb to have reasonably been expecting such an outcome. Getting grumpy about it feels too petulant and ridiculous, though. Besides, I've got one hell of a reason to get back.

If you're wondering, I wrote down the beta move by move and hold by hold. Hopefully I won't have too much remembering to do when I get back on it. Here's a couple of pics that demonstrate how I like to visualize myself climbing it, and what I actually looked like each and every time I was at the crux on point.

My climbing trip really broke down into two distinct sections. I spent the first two and a half weeks trying to do as many awesome 5.12's as possible, the intent being that I'd do them in three goes or less. I managed to climb plenty of really classic routes of the grade. In addition to the ones mentioned in "Best Day Yet," I did Twinkie, Belly of the Beast, Abiyoyo, Far From God, and Mercy the Huff.

The last week or so, I largely turned my attention to Table, and even though I never managed to do it without falling, it was still fun to juxtapose the "carpet bombing, send as much as possible" strategy with the "Roman siege mode" I have to implement when trying something that's really hard for me.

I had insanely good weather, and couldn't have expected temps to occasionally be too hot. The rains never really came, and I was climbing in shorts as much as pants. My friends who came to The Highlander were phenomenal - smart and interesting people who are hugely passionate about climbing but have interests outside of the sport. We'd have a great time climbing during the day, and have plenty of thought provoking conversations once we were back at the cabin. And The Highlander will remain THE standard for plush living. After a day of trying as hard as possible and wrecking myself on the rocks, the act of coming home to a kitchen, plumbing, a bed, and beers in the fridge made the cabin the perfect place to spend evenings. The internet kept me connected to work, and able to post for all you Voyeurs.

Just look how psyched the team was...
Hey Dan, could you look any creepier? Solid gold.

Thinking about the cabin a little more, I am pretty amazed at the contrast to the article I just read in the New York Times. The Highlander was located in the heart of Wolfe County, and was the home to a whole crew of Subaru driving out-of-towners, dining on organic produce and hoping for Sarah Palin to get the GOP nomination in a few years, thereby ensuring another term for our man Obama.

Wolfe County, on the other hand, is largely home to poor men and women on food stamps, hoping Sarah Palin gets the nod because she carries their hopes of a White House ruled by a rifle toting Christian mother. I just found it kind of interesting.

Anyway, it's back to work for me. I've got the Berkeley application due this week, as well as a pile of work to tidy up after my month away. Even so, I went to the gym yesterday to climb and catch up with some of the people who didn't make it out to The Red. Even though I seriously miss the climbing out in Kentucky, it's good to be home.

Perhaps the Best Day Yet

2009-11-21T08:01:00.000-08:00

Friday was, perhaps, my best day yet here in Kentucky. Dan and I headed down to Drive By crag and had our sights set on the dozen or so 5 star routes at the wall. Doing each and every one of them was probably out of the picture, but we'd at least give our best to put a dent into the dozen. I'd been there before, one day last fall with my buddy Derek Lyle, and remembered a fantastic 12a called Check Your Grip that had bouted me at the crux. I fell off, not from being unable to do the hardest moves, but instead from a pump in my forearms that left my motor skills so inebriated that to hold any jug, regardless of size, would have been impossible, even to save my own life were it in danger.

My hope was that I'd be able to get back on CYG and feel more accustomed to the steep, unrelenting climbing. After Dan and I warmed up on two great 5.11's, we moved our rope bag under that first objective. Dan went first, and with whatever hazy beta I could provide, tied into the cord and sauntered skyward. He's only been in the gorge for 36 hours, but after a summer of crushing, he is apparently in fine shape. There was minimal thrutching, and he flashed the route in fine style. Now the pressure was on me.

I lowered him back down to the ground, psyched for my buddy, but nervous that, even armed with nearly three weeks of climbing here, I wouldn't be able to do the route. My main goal was to repeat the 4x4 mantra, keep breathing, and give myself a good shot at sending. Dan gave me a few tips on how to go at the holds he'd just grabbed, and I pulled onto the wall.

The good news is that after dedicating a large portion of this otherwise meager life to climbing, I'm getting stronger. As we laughed at the dinner table after we'd driven home and found our friends Nick and Robin now occupying The Highlander, "I should freaking hope so!" It's really fun to get onto a climb you'd been on just a year earlier, one that felt impossible for one reason or another, and pretty well waltz to the chains.

After doing Check Your Grip, Dan and I got on Hakuna Matata. This is another 12a, one that wanders up a vertical wall painted in striking orange and gray streaks. Hakuna offers incipient cracks and little chalk for the 90 feet between the ground and anchors. Fortunately, it had the draws hanging on the bolts, which made for a slightly easier time on the climb. I managed the onsight, and for the entire 25 minutes or so that I was climbing, my mind was nowhere else.

Everyone's got an onsight limit, a grade they feel they've got a chance to do first try, without beta or preemptive know-how, whether it's 5.9 or 5.14. I love the test of slowly working through unfamiliar sequences, managing my body's fatigue and mind's wanderings. Only once, while I was resting on a jug at about mid height, did I emerge from my trance, yelling down to the ground to say hello to a friend who'd arrived. Beyond this quick conversation, I only saw the holds in front of me, only worried about the next few feet of rock instead of the coming days/months/years of life. I love the meditation that this type of climbing gives. Doing Hakuna Matata first try, onsight was exactly that moment of focus that makes climbing so magnetic for me.

After Hakuna, Dan and I went over to a climb called Primus Noctum, a route I'd heard about and watched another climber attempt. The crux, a defined bouldery section after a long run of easy but slightly pumpy climbing, was the main worry. Again, I tied in and tried to do another 5.12 route first try. Quickly, I found myself at the rest just before the boulder problem, and I felt so relaxed, so confident in my ability to do the coming hard moves. I rested as long as I felt I needed, and then calmly, smoothly pulled through the small crimps to the large horns above, clipping the chains and claiming another send. Beyond just a few minutes of focus when I was on an individual route, I realized that nearly the entire day was spent in that zone. I happily lowered down as the sun began its slow melt into the Earth, but was hoping for one last climb before darkness.

I rested a few minutes, and then hopped onto an 11D that I'd never done, nor heard anything about. I was relaxed for the climb, talking to people on the ground while at a rest and enjoying the perfect knee bars and sinker hand jams that I found along the way. I've spent enough days at the Creek and at Rifle that when I'm lucky enough to find myself fused to the rock in either of those two positions, it's like cheating. I clipped the chains and lowered back as the dark set in, really happy that my day ended with so many good sends. For me, that's a banner day.

When I got back to the cabin, the good luck continued. Nick had done Table of Colors, and when we started talking about my progress (or lack thereof) on the route, he gave me a crucial suggestion of where to put my right foot when I'm embroiled in the crux's hardest moves. I'm really excited to go back, armed with the new sequence, to try to send the route before I have to take off.

Today, Dan and I are resting at The Highlander while the rest of the crew, now swollen with good friends Dave, Brie, Nick and Robin, are out climbing. Two more friends get here tonight, and the homey needlepoint on the wall will ring true: "May our house always be too small to hold all of our friends." I'm excited to kick back with a beer this evening after they return home, listening to stories about their day at The Red. I hope they find a tranquility and presence of mind like I managed upon yesterday.

Abaluba! Life is good!

Slight Doubts (Warning: Lingo Bombs)

2009-11-19T18:47:00.000-08:00

Dan arrived safely yesterday, and we've been having a blast ever since. Sadly, he's not an avid follower of Abaluba. You remember that scene from Indiana Jones where the freaky Indian King rips the dude's heart out and shows it to him as he's dying? Well, that's basically what I felt like when Dan told me that he had every episode of Mad Men at home on his computer back in Boulder. I should have called him/worn a metal vest instead of relying on blog power.

Right after we met at the airport, we headed to the store and loaded up on food/booze supplies, The beer/wine/bourbon should come in handy. Besides the two of us, there are another 6 people slated to arrive at various points over the next 48 hours, and every one of them is fun. I figure that even with our recent stock-up, we'll need to make at least one more obligatory run to the beer trailer, the local, well, trailer, that sells booze. Yeah, it's about as bad as it sounds. You walk in through a cloud of smoke, and survey the scene. The sign outside advertises "Budweiser, Bud Light, Busch, Natural Light and other beers".

The good news is that as likely as you are to find a fine American pilsner, you have an equal chance of seeing some nOOb in his harness, quickdraws dangling, excitedly picking up a case of PBR to take back to the fire. "BroBrah, I crushed it today. I got the top rope onsight flash of Defy the Laws, third try!"

Sounds like some lame-ass 8a card. For the record, you can't repeat-flash something. This needs to be its own constitutional amendment.

____________

So Dan and I climbed today, and we went back to Left Flank. I wanted to get him on Mercy, as it's the best climb of the grade in the country. And, not so secretly, I wanted to give Table another few tries. Sadly, I didn't manage the onsight flash, top rope or otherwise. That crux is, bluntly, fucking hard. I didn't want to believe that I really had to use the nasty little crimps I kept pulling on, so much so that I called my buddy Rick from Knoxville, a guy who'd been working on the climb as well. Hoping for local knowledge, I asked about the crux sequence, and in his gentle southern accent, he assured me that, "yeaaah, dos hols just ain't vury guud." Reality reaffirmed, courtesy of Rick Bost. I guess I'll just have to go back there and try the super secret beta: bear down and try. HARD. I'm worried that even armed with that insider knowledge, I might not have enough days left on the trip to get things done. We'll see.

I've heard a little flak about not posting any updates with Miguel's pizza or Mountain Mark's BBQ as the background. First off, Mark's went out of business, so as much as I'd love a pile of pulled pork, it ain't an option. And Miguel's? That's largely due to the fact that I've avoided the place as best I could, only sneaking in to say hello to friends who were staying there on two occasions. On this trip, I've consumed exactly zero pieces of his famed pizza, and it's not for a lack of quality amongst the pies. I've just been much more content to finish the climbing day and head back to The Highlander, crack a beer, slump down on the couch, and wonder at the difference between this month's trip and the two weeks I spent here in the Spring.

I don't really want to go back to Miguel's because, frankly, it was the backdrop for two of the worst weeks in recent memory. When I was there in the Spring, I spent nearly every day huddled in a tent as the rain pelted the roof and eventually began to inundate the rain fly. Droplets would rain down on my head as I held my cell phone to my ear and alternately talked to Kate, my mom, and Neil. I knew things were code red between Kate and me, but instead of being able to fix it, I had run off to climb. Instead of being able to climb, I was huddled in a suffocating nylon hut. I talked to Kate daily, and the best I can describe it is like being on the phone while the ER doctor narrates the death of your close friend. We weren't going to get things figured out and we were making each other crazy, but we loved each other and didn't know what the hell to do. It might be better to have loved and lost, but the losing part, again, is the Indian King ripping your heart out.

Thank God that I've got such a good buddy in Neil, because he finally snapped and just told me that he was going to drive up from his house in Tennessee, pick me up, and do his best to nurse me back to health. We went back to his place and ate food, drank beer, talked about life, and got things back on track for me to the point that I was no longer despondent. When my three day vacation from my "vacation" ended and I had to return to The Red, the last thing I wanted to see was that big rainbow painting on Miguel's front door. It wasn't that poor Portuguese man's fault, our timing was just bad. And now that things are going better, that I've got a cabin, a clearer head, and better weather, I just want to indulge in that. I've got little interest in picking open scabs that are threatening to heal.

I'll get a pizza before I'm done, and even kick back with an Ale 81 for old times sake. I just want to be putting The Farm and my family in my sights before I do. I've got, at most, four climbing days remaining. If I think it will give me a better chance on Table, only three. I'm trying to make the final memories of this trip entirely positive, and I'm on the right track.

Rest Through the Rain

2009-11-17T11:21:00.000-08:00

The weather finally soured, but at the perfect time. I spent yesterday and today resting in Louisville, comfortably sleeping, writing, and relaxing at the Parrish household while the rain came down in buckets. I've been stalking climbingweather.com like any possessed sport wanker, hoping for the timely return of low humidity and prime sending temps. It looks like after today, we'll be back to just that, my planned two day hiatus coming at the perfect time.

The partner swap continues, as well. Dan is flying into Lexington in a few hours, and I'll be there to greet him at Blue Grass Airport. I'm really looking forward to riding around rural Kentucky with him as we search out some dream climbs. The partner situation has worked out really well over the entire course of the trip. First, I got to climb with Mike, and just as he was leaving town, Brian showed up. I had one climbing day between his departure and my rest days, but had a blast climbing with the cabin-mates, Anne and Reed. Reed was generous enough to get up early and head back to Left Flank with me so I could give another recon burn on Table. I think I got the beta fully figured out, and am feeling pretty confident that I can get it finished before I have to head out in a week.

It seems like Anne and Reed are going to start their massive drive back to Utah on Friday. This will leave another bedroom open at The Highlander, which is a good thing given the crowd that seems set to arrive. It's been great to have the cabin, and I boasted about it sufficiently that another half dozen friends have threatened to come in for the Thanksgiving week and crash for a while. It's going to be a party. I'm sure it will be a blast, but as I told Kathy last night, I might need a little bit of a break after that much commotion. Nothing a solo drive back to the farm can't fix. Let's not get ahead of ourselves, though. I'm ready to get the posse settled into The Red and start showing off some of my favorite cliffs.

Happy Mother's Day

2009-11-15T09:32:00.000-08:00

Wait. Isn't Mother's Day in May? I believe, in fact, that this year it was the 10th. Ironically, I was in The Red then, too. But today happens to be Mama Sus' BDay, and given that she's been one of the most loyal, supportive readers of Abaluba, I believe she deserves special acknowledgment. Plus, she's my mom, for goodness sake. As many of you out there can attest, she's basically THE reigning badass mother, fully capable of thoughtfulness-sans-mawkishness. I've never met a more conscious, caring person. Thanks, and I love you, Ma. Left to my own devices and without your guidance, patience, and influence, I'd probably end up like one of these meth-heads living in rural Kentucky.

I was bummed, for sure, that I couldn't be there to celebrate when she and my sisters went out to dinner on Friday night. I did my best by having flowers delivered to the restaurant, but otherwise failed on the gift responsibility. I'll have to come through with my own party as soon as I see the Matriarch again.

While we're on the subject of gifts, new music is one of the very best things I can think to give anyone with similar tastes. I'm assuming, of course, that many of you Voyeurs have similar taste. If I'm correct, you're in for a serious treat. This trip has certainly been centered around climbing, but there's been plenty of down time to sit with friends and exchange tunes. (And, of course, to watch Mad Men and grow a fierce conquistador).

Dan, my good buddy who arrives on Wednesday, made sure I left CO with a large portion of his library. As I've plowed through the thousands of songs he passed along, I've been blown away. Our exchange started poorly when we connected our computers and his Mac immediately made a weird noise, short circuited, and then refused to boot up. Fortunately for me, he had an external hard drive already loaded with all of his music. Fortunately for him, Apple replaced his machine. Win-win. If I had to narrow it down to my favorite two new bands that he turned me onto, I'd have to say Ratatat and French Dub Connection.

Making her first appearance on Abaluba, allow me to introduce Kathy Wise. This sweetheart climbing minx also gave me some great music for my road trip and ipod listening pleasure. For the last couple of days, I've only been listening to a mix CD she made me, and to songs by a bad called The Antlers. These guys were one of her absolute best suggestions. Holy Christ.

Kettering is one beautiful, haunting song that I've been playing largely on repeat, and another one of The Antlers' greats is a song called Two. This song is not only a little more upbeat, but also really attention grabbing. I love the video, as well. While I was checking it out for about the 15th time yesterday, I noticed that it was directed by a guy named Albert Thrower. Oddly, I happen to know a guy named Al Thrower, and when I went on Facebook to sleuth things for a bit, I found someone by the name. Facebook allows you to send messages to pretty much anyone, and I asked him if he was either a friend of Will Swayne (and subsequently the guy I know), or if not, was he the Albert Thrower who directed this fantastic music video. I wager $100 that I never hear back from him, but if I do, that it's in the form of a restraining order.

The musical copy write infringement wasn't limited to people in my home state. Mikey P, the master of Johnny Utah and rock climbs requiring 4 wheel drive, also happens to have an all-star command of iTunes. On a rest day recently, he and I managed a similar music swap, though without the computer fatalities. I came away with some absolutely clutch bands. From the number of views that this youtube video has received, I imagine everyone has already heard of Boards of Canada. I hadn't, but thankfully Mike hooked me up with four of their cd's. Additionally, he turned me onto a band called The Dodos. More incredible stuff.

A lot of Mike's music overlaps with suggestions that Nuno has given me. It seems like I'll always get a great song suggestion here or there from Nuno, but we haven't been hanging out in the same place about a year. He and I haven't managed to get our felonious libraries synchronized. That may change, however.

Nuno just got accepted into Teach For America, and this should give him a lifeline out of DC. His first choice of venues was the San Fran area, and he'll be somewhere in the vicinity. Given that he's one of my best buddies and he'll already be there, I've got extra motivation to get accepted into Berkeley's grad program. The Energy and Resources Group application deadline is December 3, and it looks like I'll have no problem getting my essays finished before then. He and I could be back to our old mischief, initiated in Boulder when he was a grad student and I was a lowly undergrad.

I imagine the program, centered on sustainable energy and resource conservation, to be the most interesting thing I could possibly study. I'm not sure I really want to leave Boulder, but I think having this particular option, one that will allow me to open a lot of doors, is a great idea.

Getting in is no guarantee. Berkeley prides themselves on being remarkably exclusive. The recommendation forms asks, assuming a teacher/student relationship, whether the prospective California Bear was the "best student of: the semester, the year, the decade, the history of the institution". Well, all right, then. What if I'm the best student named Patrick Pharo, a funny climber who generally wishes well to his friends and family? Where's that box to check? I'm the best one of those in the history of modern fuckin' man.

Speaking of rock climbing, let's not forget I'm on a climbing trip, here. And with climbing trips come climbs. I'm struck by one in particular: Table of Colors. It was the first 13 to go up in The Red, and this stunning line ascends a painted, sculpted wall at an area called Left Flank. Sending this route is my primary goal for the remainder of the trip. I'm going to get someone to hang from the chains of Mercy, The Huff, the next climb over, and take pictures. Mercy happens to be the best 12b in the country, and I was lucky enough to do it a few days ago. Aside from climbing at Left Flank, I'm going to cruise around and explore some more areas with the next batch of people who arrive in the coming days.

My immediate plans include a climbing day tomorrow, and then I'm going to give myself a quick break on Tuesday and Wednesday. The weather for these two days looks a little dodgy, and I'm going back to Louisville to finalize Cal essays, and bill some hours. The rest should do me good, and hopefully I'll be fresh for a Table ascent quickly thereafter.

I'll try to get a good post up from Louisville. Have a great weekend. Stay warm, CO.

Friday the 13th

2009-11-13T16:58:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

A Mad (and furry) Man

2009-11-10T12:09:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2009-11-08T19:06:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Four Wheel Drive

2009-11-05T17:31:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Recharging the Batteries

2009-11-03T14:28:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

(A stranger on Belly of the Beast)

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

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

Day 1

2009-11-01T17:22:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

Lift off! We have lift off...

2009-10-30T13:12:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love from Abaluba.

Sunday Morning Observations

2009-10-25T08:00:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ride A Bike, Save the World

2009-10-20T21:56:00.000-07:00

Well, maybe that's getting a little bit over the top. But I still say, "Ride a bike, enjoy your day a little bit more." Especially if it involves riding your bike to do errands, and pedaling with a buddy on bad ass single track around Grand Junction. Allow me to fill in the details.

My city bike is a converted cyclocross bike. I should actually be a bit more precise and say my only bike is a city bike, and it happens to be a converted 'cross bike. I've sold my other bike, a road racing machine, and happily neutered my 'cross bike in order to ensure that I'd never again have to race that heinous sport, either. Racing 'cross is a mix between sprinting as fast as you can for 45 minutes, interrupted only by occasional interludes best described as a midget kicking you in the groin. Yeah, it's that fun. For some unknown reason, I did it for nearly two full seasons. Further proof that I'm an abject moron.

And as for racing the road? Well, that's a bit more enjoyable, but I still found myself terrified at the prospect of losing all the skin on my ass, legs and face from a high speed dismount. This reality is pressing, given the nature of Category 4 racing, which basically pits balance-challenged, wanna-be Lance Armstrongs against one another in a war of attrition. Come to think of it, the best parts of road racing are the training and fitness, and the vanity of a team kit that allows you to pretend you're a pro. So, without too much regret, I sold that bike to a man in Florida.

What's left is a blue Cannondale Cyclocross bike that I originally bought to ride during the winter on filthy roadsm and race 'cross during the fall. For clarification, cyclocross is an activity invented in Belgium where road bikes are outfitted with knobby tires and slightly different gearing, and the racers do laps around muddy, sandy, slick tracks with the occasional barrier that forces a running dismount to clear. It might sound like grown up gym class, but to actually excel requires great bike handling skill, superhuman endurance, and a hatred of peace and quiet. I posses none of these qualities, and subsequently sucked.

So instead of subjecting myself to more races and humiliation/crippling pain, I took the bike to my favorite shop, University Bicycles, and had them change things over from 'cross to commuter. U Bikes is owned and run by Doug Emerson, a generous and warm Boulderite with a love of bikes. He also has the propensity to grow the wildest white-man afro you've ever seen. His hair is calmed down at this point, but he still gets out and rides a ton, and owns a shop on the corner of 9th and Pearl that is as spectacular in its memorabilia on the walls as in its customer service.

Doug's mechanics got me set up with a full tune up, more comfortable gear ration, easy riding flat bars, a killer chain guard, lights, and tires built for cruising, not racing. The bike is now way more comfortable to ride, and gets me around Boulder nearly as much as my blue Subaru, Abby (so named after Abaluba). The one thing I was missing, though, were fenders. Even though Doug provides me quite a bro deal, I still had to spend a few hundred dollars for all the work. At that point, I was drained, and it was the summer, anyway. Now that fall has hit, so has more predictable precip, and I need to keep the rain, sleet, and slush off my pants. Hence, the need for fenders.

With the shopping spree at U Bikes, I also came away with some cool brown leather grips. I wanted something to match the color and style. It was just my luck that, while walking on the 16th street mall after my date with a hideous sea creature, I saw a guy chaining his bike to a rail, and something special caught my eye. He had beautiful wooden fenders and I immediately asked him where he found them. He gave me the name of Woody's Fenders , a shop out of Bend, OR, and as soon as I got home from work that day, I called them up and got the skinny. Cody Davis makes fenders, racks and chainguards to anyone's specs, but also has some inventory that is sitting around for immediate delivery. I wanted my fenders ASAP, and wasn't overly particular, so long as they looked cool and kept things dry. We discussed the size I'd need, and then I ordered a set from his site.

The fenders recently came, and last week I had a chance to run to the hardware store and get everything I'd need for installation. My only two complaints from the fender experience were that hardware wasn't included, and the geriatrics working at McGuckin's nearly all had simultaneous coronaries when I brought my bike into the store. I explained that, though I understood it wasn't preferred that my bike be indoors, I needed to get the right screws, nuts, bolts, etc., and this was the only way it was happening. It all worked out, but my other complaint centers on grumpy old men giving me the hairy eye ball.

When I'm not running around the city on the blue bike, I'm usually rock climbing. That took a backseat last week when my buddy Ethan came to town. He has certainly climbed before, and he graciously placated my obsession with a few days in the gym. We had even planned to take a trip to Indian Creek, but my foot still isn't 100%, and that style of crack climbing would have left me battered worse than any 'cross race ever had.

Instead, we planned a few days of mountain biking out around Grand Junction and Fruita. Another friend, Mike Brumbaugh, runs Avon Venture Sports, a great shop around Vail that does skis in the winter and bikes in the warmer months. Mike is a great guy who always leaves me feeling like I should swear a little less, drink a little less, and do a little more for my friends. But in a good way, if that makes sense. He and I climb together out at Rifle during the summer, and in the Creek during the winter, as Mike rarely skis anymore. Instead, he rents the sticks out to Texans, and bikes out to buddies like myself. I got a full suspension Giant and Ethan grabbed one for himself, and we headed west to ride.

I'd never been on a full suspension bike before, and was amazed that I could basically point the front wheel downhill and easily float over any obstacle. That was, at least, until I got a little big for my britches and sent the front end over a boulder. At the time, Ethan was behind me, and said he saw the back of my jersey, and then one second later, the bottom bracket of the bike. Rapid crash and burn. That happened the first day, and I still had two days left on the trails. Needless to say, I slowed down considerably after that.

Ethan and I had originally planned on going to Moab so that we could ride and climb in the desert, but with my foot uncooperative, we changed plans and stayed within Colorado's border. I had a blast, and though Ethan had originally been excited to see Moab's famed slick rock biking, he seemed to really enjoy the riding we did. We rode along the Colorado river on the first day, scooted along the speedy and immaculate single track north of town the second, and ended with an ass kicking at the hands of Grand Junction's Tabaguach trail system.

The river rides were hugely scenic, and were reasonably mellow, save for the occasional terror through the rock hops. Fruita's single track was really well maintained and offered plenty of fun as we rode along the ridges and banked corners of the downhill slalom course. Tabaguach was like riding in Mordor, with rocks everywhere. This was by far the most technical and difficult riding we did. Fatigue finally settled in after three days of riding, making Tabaguach even more maddening. Of all the different venues, I think I liked the Fruita single track the best. For a neophyte mountain biker, the terrain was the most forgiving (read: least rocks to buck me off the bike) and the riding on spines of ridges, looking into the valley below while cruising along at high speed, was a blast.

So, the moral of the story: go ride a bike. It's a fine way to see the world. As an Abaluba first, we've got some video. Check it out!

The End of The Season

2009-10-09T10:29:00.000-07:00

Loveland and A-Basin are both open for skiing. It seems a little odd, given that it's only October 9th, but the fact that chair lifts are running makes the end of the Rifle season seem a little more appropriate. I've been climbing there for what seems like about 15 straight weekends, with plenty of weekday sessions thrown in for good measure, and, to be entirely honest, I welcome the break. That's not to say that I won't want to be back projecting the choss in a few weeks, but taking a breather from the three hour drive and the exhausted Sunday night/Monday morning combo should do me some good.

To be fair, I've had an INSANELY fun season. I spent a lion's share of the time climbing with All-Stars. Teaming up to climb with friends seems like it's a no-brainer, but Rifle lends itself to plenty of time spent scumming belays from anyone you can find. I was pretty lucky this year, because I seemingly always had a supportive, fun crew around who were psyched to climb during the days and then cook great food, and talk about interesting subjects around the campfire. I know what crimps feel like. Heel-hooks? Yeah, sick, brah. But getting to know the details of teaching a room full of third graders, some basics about computer programming, and the pitfalls of managing multimillion dollar portfolios is a lot more compelling. Thanks, Team A+.

Recent developments at home have left me feeling happy for some local time, too. My mom got pretty sick last week and ended up in and out of the hospital, first in Paris while she was on vacation with my sister Megan, and then back at St. Joseph's in Denver when they got home. It's a strange feeling to watch a parent fade into a shell of themselves and wonder if they might be dying. Fortunately, the health woes seem to have been caused by dehydration a reaction to several medications. For the first half a day or so, we weren't sure what was going on, and as one of her physician coworkers said, "it's either something like a drug reaction or a brain tumor." Brain tumor? That's not exactly how I was spending my autumn with my mom. That it turned out to be a pretty casual health issue is fortunate, but certainly acts as a warning not to take for granted those who you love. And for me, it was a good reminder to spend a few days with them now and then.

When she was still in the ER at St. Joe's, my sisters and I took turns sitting by her bed and watching the hysteria that can typify the ward. There were nurses and doctors everywhere, and at this point we weren't entirely sure of what was going on with our mom. Trying to stay calm and not grab anyone in scrubs and scream into their face, "What the fuck is going on with Mama Sus?" was a chore.

Besides the employees, there are plenty of patients with their own dramatic issues. A priest walked somberly into the adjacent room to deliver an elderly woman her last rites as the dying woman's daughter sobbed in the hall. It's hard not to get at least marginally attached to a stranger's plight when a man in a collar is involved. With walls made of fabric, it's easy to eavesdrop. You can imagine my relief, two fold, when I asked my mom what happened to her neighbor.

"Oh hell, she was just having nicotine withdrawal. She forgot her patch."

"Estelle" would live to fight another day, and that my mom's sense of humor was coming back showed that she was getting better, too. Thank god she could laugh about it, because the scene was pretty grim. After a few days on an I.V. and some positively atrocious hospital food, she's back on the mend. She was stuck on the renal diet because the dehydration threatened her kidneys, and the look on my mom's face when they denied her even fruit and cottage cheese, instead providing plain green beans, was maybe the saddest thing I saw the entire time she was in the ER. I felt like a criminal, but I covertly provided a few medjool dates so she had something sweet to gnaw on. Now that she's out, the food has improved dramatically, and so has her energy.

So as the summer winds down, take some time to share with people you care about. I'm glad I'll get another chance to do so.