The Right Amount of Gong Show

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

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

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

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

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

The Issue to Which I'm Speaking

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Three Scoops of Desert

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Springboard to Excellence

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

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

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

Hatch a Plan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Bone Collector

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

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

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

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

The Naked Edge

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

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

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