30 aught six

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Squamish

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paper Stacks and the Pain of Van Maintenance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Slaying Dragons in CB

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Right Amount of Gong Show

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

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

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

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

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

The Issue to Which I'm Speaking

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Three Scoops of Desert

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Springboard to Excellence

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

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

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