Springboard to Excellence

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

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

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

Hatch a Plan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Bone Collector

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

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

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

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

The Naked Edge

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

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

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

Mr. Do-it-Yourself

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.

Mike Patz and The Evictor

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

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

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

Planning a Reunion for the Holidays

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

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

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

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

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

I'll tell some of their stories soon.