Life of A Walking Monkey

The Jackass and The Zebra

2011-12-05T22:57:00.000-08:00

I stared into the mirror at the 4 x 6 inch tattoo on my neck. This wouldn’t have happened without Google.

My birthday is Tuesday Dec 6. I was born in 1981. This year, I will be thirty. I’ve always felt like a bit of a geriatric. For six months, I used a wheel chair, a walker, and a cane. Actually, I never used a cane; I used a nine iron to support my hobble. My limp got better and my short game improved a ton. I spent a significant amount of time around stroke victims while I was recovering from a climbing accident. My hospital room mate, an old Los Gatos school superintendent named John, was thirty years my senior. When they fused my back, and my ankle, I saw a Los Gatos orthopedist, whose waiting room was filled with geriatrics. The stiff ankle, the fused back, the wear on my body… I’ve felt old for 6 years now. It’s not a pleasant feeling.

The Phoenix climbs a technical corner to a difficult crack traverse. A pumping fingers section to overhanging hands follows the crux. I fell all over it this spring. During one lead attempt, I tried to stuff a red alien into a yellow alien spot. Think smashing a square peg into a round hole. Unable to fit the cam in and scared to fall, I threw the piece over my shoulder into the poison oak and waterfall far below. I grabbed the crack, made two moves, realized I could use the red alien but I had just thrown it, and promptly took a monster winger.

At Jailhouse, I punted off my mega proj staring at the anchor, 5 times. 5 times. It wore me down. On Washington’s Column, I tried to climb the Quantum Mechanic. Instead, I got scared, I aided, and I generally got worked. Morale was low low low.

Everybody’s nice to you on your birthday. It’s a fact. People get gifts on their birthdays, they get called up by long lost friends and distant relatives, and people constantly acquiesce to your demands. Hey, it’s your birthday! According to a Johnson & Johnson study, you are 68.5% more likely to have sex on your birthday. Yahoo! What better way to guarantee having a great day then having a birthday.

With a steady feeling of depression kicking in, I decided I needed to cheer myself up, at least for a day. I thought and I thought and I thought about what to do. I Googled how to cheer yourself up. Dance, Party, Smile. There had to be something. While Google searched the interweb for an answer to my depression I checked Facebook. I noticed that it was almost my friend, Alex Evans birthday. Everyone was wishing him happy birthday. He was gonna go on a Happy Birthday climb in Yosemite, have Happy Birthday cake with a group of Camp 4 climbers, and even have hot Happy Birthday sex with his girlfriend. Hundreds of people wished him happy birthday on his Facebook wall. That’s what I needed- a birthday. So I changed my birthday on Facebook.

The response was overwhelming. Over a hundred people wished me happy birthday. Alex came up to me and was so surprised- he’s known me for 6 years and never realized that his birthday was the day before mine! Then Casey McTaggart called me, “OMG! We have the same birthday!” It was all so awesome! I forgot about tossing that cam, about punting on the sport proj, and about getting worked on Washington’s Column. For one day, I felt good. What a great feeling. Why couldn’t I feel like this everyday? I decided it’d be a good idea to have another birthday. People would just forgot in a few months right? So, I changed my birthday on Facebook again to 3 months later. I could go for another PARTY!

Thirty is a milestone year. The twenties are done. The carefree days of my youth are behind. Think mortgage, marriage, making a career. My first facebook birthday in June was a celebration. My second Facebook birthday in September was a sudden realization of how old I actually was. A geriatric. If I had three birthdays every year, by the time I was 50, I’d be a hundred years old. Reality settled in. All the notes, the phone calls, even the gifts, from my second Facebook birthday just reiterated the fact that I was aging rapidly. I was getting old.

There’s hipsters everywhere at Smith Rocks. They come from Portland on the weekends. Tattoos, skinny jeans, and serious attitudes. I joked about all the bad tattoos that the hipsters had. Wouldn’t it be funny to see a hipster with a bad unicorn tattoo? I joked at the crag. Then I Googled bad unicorn tattoos and what did I find? Rambo riding a unicorn! It was so bad it was awesome. This was beyond hipster ironic- this was universally ironic.

Kate Rutherford, Greg Garretson, and I drank wine, hanging out after a day of climbing at Smith. I showed them the Rambo picture.

“I bet we could make that better,” Greg opened up Photoshop. “Enhance the background.”
The flames got replaced with a grassy flower filled field.

“Put a rainbow behind him,” Kate sipped some Merlot. “He should be shooting something. And a little burst from the end of his gun, like an explosion.”

“A laser?” I suggested. Greg clicked away at the image. Rambo had a laser.

“How about a rainbow?” Kate said. A few minutes later the image had reached perfection. The best picture of Rambo riding a unicorn shooting a rainbow crossbow ever.

I am in constant conflict with myself. I love climbing. Even when I’m throwing cams over my shoulder, punting on the sport proj, or jumaring, rapping, bolting, and hiking by myself. I love it. But there’s days when I don’t feel so young anymore. I look at my peers, the ones who are married, the ones with kids, jobs, and houses that aren’t station wagons. I get jealous. There’s times when I want to permanently remove myself. Destroy the possibility of ever living that lifestyle. Though I want it sometimes, it’s a hard one to move to. It’s easier for me to climb all the time, live on a budget, and travel. You get good at what you practice. Doing the things that make us grow, isn’t easy.
What’s more, I wanted to change myself. I wanted to be something more than I was. I didn’t want to blend in with the geriatrics I had spent so much time with. I wanted my youth back. I wanted to stop feeling 60 and start feeling 20 again. I wanted the perfect tattoo; the one that turned the jackass into the zebra.

I called a number of tattoo parlors around Smith. I even tried a few places in Portland; I figured the hipster capital would have someone who specialized in unicorn tattoos. I got the same answer from all of them. Expensive. Getting a little youth back doesn’t come cheap. I searched Google for an inexpensive way to get Rambo riding a unicorn on my neck. I found a viable option and I went for it.

I could hear their whispers from across the gym. I had stopped by the bay after my trip to Smith. A matching pair of hipsters adorned the Berkeley Ironworks lead cave. They had seen my neck tattoo. I could only imagine what they said to each other.

“That guy is way more punk than us,” a tat of a crying statue of liberty bounced up and down his skinny shoulder.

“Look at that neck ink. What a gangster,” she said. Roses marked the back of her hands and tattoed stars floated behind her ears. “I bet he totally passed the lead test.”

I felt bad ass. I stopped by Mortar Rock and tore my tips apart on Nat’s Traverse, falling at the end. Lucho, my long time climbing friend from San Francisco, came out with me. “That tattoo does make you look like a gangster.” Lucho never says stuff like that. Though, I kept falling off the end of the problem, I got a little more swagger.

The feelings lasted about a day, maybe a day and a half. Then I started to feel silly. I had a square 4 x 6 inch tattoo of Rambo riding a unicorn on my neck. What the fuck? What was I thinking? A neck tattoo in this recession economy, where the job market is tight, would squash my chances for future employment. Did I really want to eliminate the possibility of entering the rat race- a chance at a house and stability?

I stood staring in the mirror. I scratched at my neck hard, rubbing the skin red. Blue flakes fell into the sink. Google found my only affordable tattoo option. A company in China or Milwaukee or somewhere in between made temporary tattoos for a margin of the price. My nails tore at the flesh and the flakes floated into the sink. I thought of the ephemeralness of it all. Like the feeling of specialness from changing my Facebook birthday, the tattoo tough guy feelings wouldn’t last. I lacked the sincerity to be a true gangster. I couldn’t change my birthday every day. The feelings woud only last for so long. I'd need something more sustainable.

Part of growing older is learning to be comfortable with yourself, a challenge I feel on a regular basis. It’s 11pm on Dec 5. It’s almost my birthday. I’m gonna wake up tomorrow morning, have something to eat, and then go climbing. I’ll be 30. Maybe I’ll boulder at the Buttermilks, maybe I’ll climb some routes in Owens River Gorge. I’ll spend a little bit of time looking for a place to rent for the winter in Bishop. The house might happen, it might not. I’ll work a little, hang out with friends. I’ll try not to worry too much about growing up or staying young about changing my birthday on Facebook or getting a tattoo. I’ll just try to be something between a jackass and a zebra. I’ll just try and be myself for a little while.

Living the Dream

2011-11-28T20:27:00.000-08:00

Cold gravel crunched beneath my feet. The air bit my lips. Smoke emerged when I exhaled. I used the bathroom and scrambled back to my sleeping bag, my car, my home. It wasn’t raining yet. Maybe there would be climbing when the sun rose and warmed the park.

An hour later, I heard the familiar tapping on the glass. Drip drip drop. I groaned. I tried to go back to sleep. By 8 all the rocks in Smith were wet. By 9, the ground under the trees was too. I sat up in the back of my Saturn station wagon and stared. There would be no climbing today. I would sit and stare out the car window all day, wishing it was nice outside, wishing I was climbing, maybe even wishing I had a normal job with a house, a girlfriend, and a real life. Drip drip drop. But that’s only wishing. Right now, I am living out of my car, traveling wherever I want with no responsibilities. I am living the dream. Drip drip drop. There were days when I wish the dream would end.

I should have known I was out of my element when I stopped just north of Shasta. I tried to pump my own gas. The attendant stopped me immediately, assuring me that it was his job to fill my gas tank. “That’s why they pay me the big bucks,” he said as put $38.00 of regular unleaded into the tank. I gave him a look of pure Californian suspicion. Why was the gas cheaper than in Cali? Why was he really filling my tank? Who were these sneaky sneaky Oregonians with their half truths?

Smith

“I love this climb. You can just scamper up it,” Darryn said as she lowered down from Wedding Day, a 5.10b arête at the Dihedrals. I crimped through the classic climb, grunting, thrutching and desperately fighting my way to the anchors. I pulled out every trick in the book. I didn’t come close to “scampering.” As I lowered, I looked at the route next to it, a short 5.12a called Flat Earth. “It’s a stroll,” said super local, Ian Caldwell as he sunk a mono and drop knee back stepped through the crux. It’s a local sandbag, I thought to myself.

The climbing in Smith is tuff. Alan Watts, established many of the routes on rappel. Bolting the chossy faces from the top down revolutionized American rock climbing. By climbing on preplaced gear, bolts, the climbing standards rose quickly. “Sport climbing” arrived in the United States. The standards of the 80s were far different than those of today. The bolts are miles apart by today’s standards. It’s not sport climbing in Smith. It’s 80s face climbing. And it’s SCARY.

10 Gallon buckets- a 35 meter 5.10c or a multi-pitch cluster fuck

I can’t crimp. I can’t high step. I get terrified when I’m ½ an inch off the ground and more than ¼ an inch away from a bolt. There were a hundred reasons why the climbing in Smith would be especially hard for me- I took everyone as a reason to go. It’s easy to get better at things you’re already good at but working your weaknesses- that will make you a better climber.

The Full Heinous climbs a steep gently overhanging section of the Dihedrals area at Smith. The route originally had 3 bolts and required widgets to protect. Watts retrobolted the route and placed twice as many bolts! Twice as many! That’s incredible- until you realize how far apart the bolts still are. To stick clip the first bolt, you need to stand on someone’s shoulders with a stick clip.

What's that guy doing? Stick clipping on a route? OMG!Smith Rocks!

I found an extendable pole in the boulders of Camp 4. Duct tape held two brushes to the metal telescoping pole. I ripped the tape off, grabbed some supplies, and with my own duct tape, created a Stick clip. This would surely get me up any route I wanted to try in Smith. That’s what I thought when I showed up.

Ian Yeardin getting out his thermal sensor.

Perfect temps for sending the mega slab To Bolt or Not to Be.

Perhaps it was his half Billy Ray Cyrus, half George Michaels good looks. Maybe it was the stained long underwear he wore under his filthy shorts. “It’s like you said James,” a cloud of dust hung around Portlandianer Alex Baker. “You got to look good to climb good.” The mullet, the dirty costume, the 5 day old beard, and the dirty costume, somehow got Alex a send of Vicious Fish, a difficult 5.13c arête at the Morning Glory Wall. It also got him a girlfriend. Weird. Baker was also on his way to get a job at Black Diamond in Salt Lake City. Oregon is a strange place with strange people. While Baker was an out of the ordinary bone crusher, the weirdest people were the “Super Locals.”

“Im glad I can climb harder so I can climb easier routes,” said Mark Postel, a tall, lanky Smith Rocks climber of over a decade. “A lot of the easier routes aren’t that well bolted and often are quite hard.”

Located directly across from the Smith Rocks campground, the Postel’s humble abode is as close as you can get to Smith Rocks without tripping. The small building Postel called home could barely contain the big man. Postel refuses to admit he’s six foot two inches. “I’m 5’14”. Postel works as a guide in Nepal or Patagonia or Anartica- wherever the yak riding Sherpas with Britney Spears ring tones on their fake iPhones live. He returned from dragging a couple clients to some mountain called ImmaDaBomb to hike all the routes on the front side of Smith Rocks. There’s people out there who are close to living the dream. They own houses and climb at the rocks outside their house. They are super locals, and Postel is one.

Postel service at the Dihedrals

Max shaved chocolate into a mug ¾ full of hot water. By the time he added the bourbon, the hot liquid almost boiled over. He played the new Chromeo album, placing his iPhone into a cup so that the sound was amplified through his home, a Toyota Previa vansion. Max had finally made it.

“When the dashboard battery light comes on, it might not be your battery,” Max called me from Goldendale Washington, a small town somewhere between Leavenworth and Smith. “It could be your alternator. Did you know that your car won’t drive without it?”

Max walked to the library and spent most of the day trying to find something to do while he waited for a new alternator to arrive in Goldendale. That’s called living the dream. After a day’s delay and a few hundred bucks, Max arrived in Smith. He spent most of his five day stint getting flash pumped and then leaving to find some boulders. Did you know that there are a number of boulder problems at Smith? I didn’t. Nor did I care. Max did. And he cared enough to climb them, dragging me out to a surprisingly cool chunk of rock below the campground. Though Max has climbed the Compressor Route on Cerro Torre, climbed El Capitan, established new free routes in Alaska, he is primarily a boulderer at heart. Not only did Max crush some V gnar, but he put on a rope and fought his way up the classic Chain Reaction, falling at the redpoint crux a number of times. On his last day before leaving for a business trip to Japan, Max stuck the dyno at the top of the route. Boom!

Max bouldering at 11pm on the tuff below the Campground Bivy at Smith Rocks

I climbed towards the first bolt. My legs shook for 15 minutes as I stared down the crimps to the first bolt. If I could only make it there, I could be safe. The exposure was overwhelming. Panic. Panic. Panic had set in. I over gripped then when I couldn’t hold on any longer, I fell. I plummeted a solid 12 inches to the ground. It was an enormous fall. I thought I was sport climbing. I tried to clip the first bolt but my stick wouldn’t reach. The bolt was too high for my stick clip. I didn’t need a stick clip- I needed a rope gun. Thank God Kate was around.

Kate Rutherford climbs good cause she looks good. Kate advises you to wear pastel puff jackets for winter 2012.

Kate Rutherford is quiet. I met her like 7 or 8 years ago in Indian Creek. She was atypically clean for Indian Creek. I didn’t know it then, but now I do. It wasn’t abnormal. Kate always manages to look put together. It’s impressive. I’m not sure how she pulls it off but she does. It probably comes from her well put together life. Kate works as a part time jeweler, part time Patagonia Ambassador, and full time bone crusher. She lives most of the year with her boyfriend, Mikey Schaefer, inside a black Sprinter, a regular McVansion. She’s living the dream. While at Smith, she totally took advantage of the look good climb good phenomenon. She hiked The Full Heinous, Darkness at Noon, Doritos, and a ton of other “moderate” 5.12 “warm-ups.” She wasn’t the only one hiking at the sport crag.

“Someone’s on the proj Kate,” from the Morning Glory Wall, I watched a pink shirt dance up the runout climbing of the Full Heinous, a 5.12cR route at the Dihedrals. When I walked over, I saw a bespectacled man and a couple of young kids. The dad seemed intent on toproping the Full Heinous all day. I groaned, wondering who had put the rope up for this dad. I looked around. Kid, kid, fat parent, kid. It wasn’t making sense. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a pink shirt bursting from beneath a skinny 12 year olds oversized down jacket.

I stared at him. A few minutes of conversation revealed the culprit. Drew Ruana onsighted Kate and I’s project as a warm up. My ego was the Hindenberg. Crashing. Burning. No Survivors.

“Tell that kid of yours to stop flashing my projects,” I said to his dad, hoping to salvage some of my destroyed dignity.

“He's been doing that to me since he was 9...” said Rudy, a bridge architect in Seattle who was well aware of the reality of having a young crusher around. “I took away his playstation, just to be a dick!”

This 12 year old Seattlelite will crush your proj and act like a gangster.

I tried to ignore my defeated attitude and went up the route. One move before
a bolt, high on the wall, I fell, whipping well past the first set of chains. Yup. Smith is scary. Yup. Little kids send your projects. Yup. Living the dreams means living with a constantly broken ego.

This summer I spent a month in Rifle, which was a fun place. The limestone there is ok. There’s a large concentration of good or okay routes, which makes the 2 mile canyon pretty good as a sport climbing destination. A few years ago, I went to the Red River Gorge for 23 days in November. The climbing was fun but robotic. I don’t remember any different routes there. There was a lot of sandstone, the south east culture is super fun, but that place- meh. Red Rocks, Mesquite, Sonora, Rumney, little crags like Little Si, Chekamus, Trinity Aretes…meh. Smith may be the best sport climbing in the United States. The style of climbing there, vertical, crimpy rock, isn’t in vogue though and even the locals don’t take advantage of the offensively large amount of basalt in the gorge.

An Upper Gorge classic Wardance- 5.12a. My ass hurt the next day from stemming so much.

“Chicken pot pie- my three favorite things.” Greg Garretson. I met Greg in the Red a few years ago. The brief encounter ended up turning into a lucrative opportunity when Garretson hooked me up with an amazing job.

The production poster for the upcoming movie. I get credit on it!

The movie closed the entire Morning Glory crag, 5 Gallon Buckets, and many of the best climbs on the front side of Smith Rocks. Disney productions hired Mario Lopez and Flipper’s grandson son, a dolphin named Flopper, to star in River Dolphin, the story of a retarded football player and his redemption with a smart alec river Dolphin. The movie gave me an opportunity to cash in on some costume designs. Mario Lopez got a nice Ducks shirt with a fake string of saliva on it. Boy, Lopez looked better than when he did the Slater Dance.

I put glitter around Flopper’s blow hole. That’s right. Lots and lots of glitter.

Disney will be releasing the movie later this spring. I’m looking forward to its arrival. Maybe I’ll get more costume designing jobs out of the production. That’d be sweet!

Five or maybe six years ago, Drew “The Iceman” Rollins set a toprope on Dreamin for me. The crux of the route is low and well protected but the run out 80 degree wall above keeps away the crowds. I tried for a minute to stick clip the first bolt. Then I tried the initial moves. Then I figured out how to clip the bolt. With a few weeks of tuff under my feet, I monoed and grab the pockets just right, surmounting the roof and heading up the long section technical section. I tried not to be scared but I was. The park was quiet. I felt alone between the bolts. It was a Wednesday or Friday or maybe even a Monday afternoon. I don’t know. I was just focusing on the rock climbing. I was living the dream.

My fingers numbed out below the roof. I fought through the stemming in the middle to the redpoint crux at the pen ultimate bolt. High on the red wall of Kings Of Rap, I crimped a hold and locked off to grab a small pocket. I couldn’t feel anything and fell.

My next try, I wore a buff, another shirt, I put hand warmers in my chalk bag, I ran to the bathroom and back to warm up, and I sprinted through the intial difficulties, ignoring the pump and fighting the biting cold. I was successful.

Even the deer look cold.

That night, it snowed three inches. Snow covered the car. I woke up two, three, maybe four times during the night because the cold froze my nose and lips, the parts of my body not buried into my sleeping bag. The sun rose eventually. The snow stayed. It was time for me to leave.

A few hours after I left

I began driving slowly, very slowly down the 97 south towards warmer and better weather. A semi, a chevy van, a pick-up, were all on the side of the road. I focused on the ice and keeping the Saturn on the road. Kate sent me a message that the crags were sunny by the afternoon. I wondered why I left. I wondered if I should just turn around. I wondered mostly what part of living the dream this was.

Quantum Man -5.13a Grade IV.

2011-10-26T21:24:00.000-07:00

The first ascent of the Quantum Man (Quantum Mechanic to Astroman via the Quantum Leap variation) was made in October of 2011 by myself and Madeline Sorkin with a couple of falls and returns to no hands ledges. The first free ascent was made later in the month by myself and Ben Ditto. Neither climber fell that day with Ditto making an impressive flash ascent. I am hoping to climb the route out the roofs in the longer days of spring.

The first pitch follows the initial climbing on Astro-man to the two bolt belay and then cuts across a slab to the base of a widening splitter. Delicate face traversing and lots of rope drag make the 5.8 moves to the crack feel difficult. A few finger size pieces will make a natural gear belay. 200’

Off a gear anchor, the crack widens from a section of difficult big fingers to thin hands to full on offwidth. Reaching the top of the crack is a forty foot horizontal roof. An enormous granite manta ray hangs at the beginning of the roof. After clipping a long sling to the bolts at the top of Terminal Research (5.11c), it is possible to undercling the manta ray feature. A big hands piece then a fist piece can be placed behind the flake. If this piece of rock came off it would seriously jeopardize team safety as the belay is directly below it. Undercling left to better rock. Catch a small break by a flake keystoned in the undercling and then fight leftward. This is not an undercling. It’s a Thundercling! Place a 4 camalot, a 5 camalot and then a 6 camalot. Two bolts protect the final moves. It is easier to clip the first bolt when it is behind you. Moving to the next bolt requires an interesting, though not difficult kneebar move. A few moves of 5.10 liebacking take you to a two bolt anchor. A 60 meter rope will reach to the ground from here. The pitch is 5.13a though the rating comes from the difficulty in placing the large gear and the offensive pump. Some might call it "athletic 12c." It It is difficult to follow and tagging out the gear at the Terminal Research anchor is advisable as it takes some weight off. It's hard to clean the gear- try the pink point tuff stuff. 120’

A few wide moves leads to a hanging rock and a small roof encounter. A finger to hands to fingers crack allows passage on the right side of the hanging rock. A short 5.11c footless 1 camalot hands traverse across the top of the rock leads to the next belay.

Belay off a two camalot, a solid bolt and a quarter incher at the stance. 40’
A series of detached pillars lead to a corner, which is often wet. Place two blue alien size pieces then layback the fin of the corner to a couple of pin scars and a large flake at 5.12. A 3 camalot fits in at the base of the flake. Climb to the top of the flake and clip a manky pin. Either down climb and make a reachy traverse right on delicate feet or continue up to a steep hand crack, a couple funky chimney style moves and the tree out right. Either way is 5.11. Belay at a two bolt anchor by the tree. 100’

Follow a finger crack up and then traverse right through delicate face holds at 5.11c. Climb the corner with care of loose rock at 5.11. The original Quantum Mechanic traverses right on orange rock. The Quantum Leap variation continues in the corner. A belay stance rests below a steep corner. There are 3 solid bolts at the belay. A 70 meter rope just makes it to the top of Planck’s Constant, the Thundercling. 100’

A steep fingers section followed by a wide block marks the initial difficulties of the next 5.11 pitch. Climb both sides of a large block, clip a bolt, then make some steep layback moves up a corner with good feet. A two bolt anchor should be drilled on the left arête to make a solid stance but instead continue climbing the amazing corner to a hanging two bolt aid anchor. 90’

The overhanging hand crack of the Quantum Leap pitch

The Quantum Leap pitch follows a steep 5.11+ hands pitch off the hanging belay. Stay left and be careful not to place a cam at the lip of the crack- your rope might get stuck behind it. After the hands section, continue up to a large ledge. Clip a bolt off a swaying pillar, gaston, cross and then campus to the arête doing a v3 boulder problem. Mantle and place a green alien behind a flake at head height. Traverse left and then up on dirty terrain placing another finger size piece. Good news is that you’re at Hotel California. This is a good bivy for two with no need for a ledge120’
Head up and then left on 5.8 terrain being careful of dirt and loose rock to a two bolt anchor. From here, an easy downclimb can be made to the base of the changing corners pitch on Astroman or the route can continue up the 5 roof pitches of the full Quantum Mechanic.

A double set of cams from blue alien to 2 camalot will suffice. Include a 3, 3.5, 4, 5, and 6 for Planck’s Constant. Rappeling from Hotel California requires two ropes, directionals, and there will be a lot of rope drag. It is possible though.
Much thanks to Tim Derohen, John Schmid, Todd Bartlow, Jake Whittaker, James Selvidge and Rob Miller for the belays, beta and support.

Ghosts, Magic and Science

2011-09-19T11:37:00.000-07:00

Located an hour east of Seattle, Index Washington sits on the North Fork of the Skykomish River, just above its confluence with the main channel of the Skykomish a small river that the passing train crosses over on its way across the north Cascades. The 150 inhabitants live in the woods by the river and wake to the sights of Mount Index, Mount Baring and the vertical granite of the Upper Town Wall.

On Sunday mornings, bells ring in the town church. Some of the residents are god fearing people. Some residents are pagans with pentacles, five-pointed stars contained within a circle. The five points of the star represent the four classic elements. The pagans believe in a fifth element as well. The little town in the mountains hosts a variety of beliefs. Stories exist of ghosts, of magic and of science.

Index climbing involves blue collar science. The 80 degree slabs involve boulder problems between no hands rests. The routes feel extremely sandbagged. Climbing in good conditions in Index is rare. Summer is hot with the Lower and Upper Town Walls in the sun. Winters are rainy and there are few steep routes to climb on. Sometimes in the fall, when the clouds sit just right, Index can be perfect. That’s the magic time in Index and that’s when everything gets sent.

In 1984 the Department of Natural Resources granted the Robbins Company, whose equipment helped dig the chunnel between Great Britain and France, the right to test mine in Index. Using a Mobile Miner, an enormous digging machine, the company bore a 12’ x 21’ by 278’ tunnel in the wall and removed 3,000 cubic yards of material. Local climbers argued against the heavy machining and the Robbins Company voluntarily ceased their digging, allowing for the University of Washington Gravity Lab to use the tunnel at the Country climbing crag for research.

The fifth force may exist. Elementary particles interact with each other through four different forces: gravity, electromagnetism and strong and weak interaction- known as “strong” and “weak nuclear force” respectively. Tests on gravitational constant have been recorded in a deep borehole in the Greenland ice sheet, an Australian mine shaft and onboard the USS Dolphin submarine while it was deeply submerged. These tests search for discrepancies between the estimated and the actual forces, for the existence of a fifth force. Being close to a known large mass allows for a constant in the tests. The University of Washington Gravity Lab used the tunnel in Index to search for the fifth force. Scientists invent magic.

The vertical granite of the 600 foot Upper Town Wall hosts a number of quality free climbs. The Davis-Holland, the easiest route on the formation at 5.10b, follows a crack line on the west face. Next door is Rise and Fall, followed by Green Dragon, Town Crier and a host of other “5.12” routes. I hiked to the top of the Town Wall with a seventy meter rope and dropped it down the face. Using two mini-traxions, I rappelled down seventy meters and then climbed back up using the mini-traxions to arrest my falls. Being alone on the wall, working through the tech nine climbing of Rise and Fall, was one of the best experiences I’ve had in awhile. I used to free solo longer routes a lot. Working the route, along on the wall gave me a lot of the same feelings. I enjoyed the solo time.

The local hardmen of Index are an interesting crew. Andrew Philbin’s mom belays him occasionally and almost always on his hardest sends. When Andrew projected the tech-nine arête Amandala (5.13c) at the Lower town Wall, his mom belayed him on the rig. With encouragement from his mommy, Andrew sent and earned notoriety in the Washington climbing community for his ascent of the “Mom”dala. Andrew’s mom believes in him.

Philbin wrote about our recon of Good Girls like Bad Boys, a 6 pitch 5.12 route off of Madsen Ledge on the Upper Wall. “We used The Ave (5.8) as an approach pitch; not the most elegant outing even if you are fond of thorns, spiders and dirt. “ Philbin lead the first two pitches off Madsen Ledge, a pitch of 11c and a pitch of 5.12. While Drew managed to figure out the difficult slab mantle on the 5.12 pitch, the hard climbing proved my ineptitude on this style of climbing and we retreated as darkness fell. I vowed to return.

Mikey, the other master of Index, and I hiked past the Upper Town Wall. The technical climbing had worked me and Schaefer wanted to get back into shape.

“I’m gonna send on my last try,” I told Mikey at the base of Attractive Nuisance a route at the Outdoor Hangboard. The route follows a steep corner. A slab on the left side and overhanging incut granite holds on the right require drop knees, shoulder scums and wild body movement. Initially, the route was rated 5.13. In the new guidebook Daryl Kramer downgraded the route to 5.12c. Mikey tried the route 8 times before he sent. It took me 9. It’s hard to know what to believe sometimes. I do believe that I did it though.

Locals hang signs outside their houses. No trespassing. Private Property. Trespassers will be shot. Survivors will be shot again. Index residents are known for having 12 Gauge Iqs.

Built in 1898 to serve train passengers heading over Stevens Pass, the Bush House served as a hub for the small town of Index. Mrs. Bush, the owner, greeted travelers at the the train, ringing a bell and calling out “Bush House Hotel.” The Bush House served as a hub for the town, being the only place large enough to accommodate sizeable gatherings. Index’s largest building shut down when Snohomish County revoked the hotel's occupancy permit because of structural and public safety concerns. The hotel’s disrepair, the poor foundation and the collapsing structure, were just part of the concerns.

Concrete tiles run perpendicular to the steel rails. Every other tile has a scuff mark, the white blasted line where metal hanging from the train connectors gouged the tile. This is what kills people on the train luge. Lay between tracks. Face up. Listen to the roar. Watch the sky vibrate. Hold still and the Amtrak will clear your body. If a chain hangs from the caboose, the train luge becomes serious. It’s possible. It just involves laying beneath the tracks and believing you’ll be ok.

1907- Annabelle stayed at the hotel while her newly married husband worked in the Monte Cristo mine. Prospectors found rich surface deposits in the area but the past few years had been less fruitful. Annabel’s husband thought he could revive the mine, make money to support his new wife and build a family in Index. While eating dinner at table 2, a group of train passengers entered the hotel’s restaurant with news of a catastrophic accident in the mine. The rains of the past few days had flooded the mine, destroying much of the infrastructure. “Everyone died,” they said. Annabelle sat in shock fiddling with the silverware at her table. She left her food, returned to room 9, packed her bags and hung herself. Her husband returned a few days latter after narrowly escaping the accident. When he discovered her dead, he killed himself too. The ghost of a woman in a white dress walks through the hotel at night. Tears run down her face and onto her deeply bruised neck. When the hotel restaurant was open, visitors complained that the silverware at table 2 shifted while they were eating.

We started hiking in the dark and reached the top as the sun rose. Jessica Campbell, a friend from nearby Leavenworth, and I rappelled into the crux pitches of Green Dragon. The classic Washington aid line goes free at 13- with a couple of face variations around the original aid line. Justen Sjong and Ben Gilkinson freed the route recently and gave it modern (read not sandbagged) grades. The last two pitches of 12c and 13a are the crux and we worked out the moves early in the morning. But soon, the sun was over Baring. The rock heated quickly. Our feet burned in our black shoes. Climbing became impossible. We retreated to the summit.

WSGS, the Washington State Ghost Society, investigated the paranormal activity at the Bush House a few years ago. The group spent the night, setting up video cameras and tape recorders to capture EVP, electromagnetic voice phenomenon. I’m not sure how the advanced scientific equipment worked. Probably like the fifth force testing. “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic,” Arthur Clarke. In the morning when they reviewed their footage, the white silhouette of a small boy appeared running near the shed behind the Bush House. They heard his screams on the tape recorder. Interviews with locals revealed that a boy had been murdered in the shed. Or so the stories go.

“This is the hardest pitch in the world, “ Mikey’s yell soaked into the mist of the Upper Town Wall. Our one headlamp jumped across the Upper Town Wall. Earlier that afternoon, Mikey redpointed the crux pitch. He managed the third pitch, put together the fourth, and the fifth. When darkness fell, he started up the last difficult 5.11 pitch. With a scream, the light of the headlamp levitated upward. The mist hid the moon. The air was cold and the rock colder. It was the magic time in Index. Mikey sent the pitch and took us through the difficult climbing to the summit. When it was my turn, I couldn’t figure out how he ascended the blank expanse of vertical rock. The fifth force? I pulled through and soon joined Mikey on his successful ground up ascent of Good Girls Like Bad Boys. It had been a daunting prospect but Mikey had succeeded. He believed.

Rain wet the trail on the hike down from the Upper Town Wall. My headlamp picked out a newt walking down the trail, I’d seen a fist sized frog and a large snake hiking with Drew. Thumb sized brown spiders weaved webs between the trees. Where the pagans in this town because of these animals? Why were the scientists experimenting with the fifth force in a place like Index? What else lived in Index? I wanted to find magic in the woods.

Previous owners nailed plywood to the windows and doors of the Bush Hotel. A small opening just pass a No Trespassing sign and above a piece of plywood, allowed entrance. I stared into the room full of dust and old couches wondering if I should go in. The voices of dead people sang in my ear. I turned off my Ipod and the voices ended. A little bit of the magic stopped. I turned around, and went back to my car. I was afraid of seeing ghosts. I was more scared of not seeing one. Finding a boring reality is more frightening than having those unknown possibilities, even dreadful ones. I want to live in a world of imagination. I want to believe in ghosts, magic and science.

Colorado Love

2011-08-12T16:09:00.000-07:00

I woke up in a casino parking lot. A dome light dangled above my head. The electric wires spun in and out of view. I was somewhere in Nevada in the back of a station wagon.

My red Saturn Station Wagon. My beat down, gear laden, Saturn Station Wagon.
I fell out of the back and into the driver’s seat. I drove towards the sun rise. Behind me was a Yosemite season of disappointment. The eastern sun rise promised something new, at least something different. I was skeptical tho.

“Now let me welcome everybody to the wild, wild west- A state that's untouchable like Elliot Ness.” Dr. Dre and Tupac rap in California Love. “Cali got gun play, models on the runway,”sings Notorious BIG in Going back to Cali. Snoop Dogg sings “I’m all up on ya- cause you’re representin California” in the pop hit California Girls. Who’s famous for singing about Colorado? John Denver. He strums a guitar and sings about a rocky mountain high. That is not gangster. California 1 Colorado 0. I drove east anyway.

I arrived in Rifle with the goal of getting stronger so I set an appropriate goal- clip the anchors of 100 pitches and send 20 of them. The steep limestone requires serious technique- drop your right knee, drop your left knee, now shit yourself cause you can’t move. My first 3 weeks there were awesome. I climbed well, flashing and onsighting a few easy 5.12s and then flashing a 12c. I got lots of mileage on the soapy limestone.

This is me flashing Cardinal Sin. This route is 12a but in the gym it would be 13c.

For the better part of two weeks, Hayden’s house in Carbondale was empty. Think parents gone. Think huge mansion. Think kegs, cocaine and a house full of raging party. I commuted from Hayden’s house to Rifle for a few days, while I met people camping out there and got used to the scene. Hayden had to handle the dozens of Carbondale hotties himself.

Hayden on Pump-A-Rama at the Arsenal

Supposedly Michael Kennedy, Hayden’s dad, is a good climber. He’s climbed a lot of rock routes across the world. He’s done some serious alpine climbing. He owned Climbing Magazine and now works as the editor for Alpinist. Supposedly he’s a bad ass. I don’t know about all that- what I do know is that Hayden’s dad can drink some scotch. Part of my reasoning behind making the big drive to Colorado was to meet some of the talking heads I’ve conversed with via the interweb but never met. Michael Kennedy exceeded my expectations. After a few glasses of scotch, MK was able to discuss the effects the internet had on print media using eight letter words. I could only nod and watch the room swim. Professional. Point Colorado.

Hayden and Julie Kennedy stretching it out after too much Scotch and wine

Dan Mirsky, Jen Vennon, Wendy Williams, Andrew Bisharat, and a dozen other Rifle climbers, all crush steep limestone on the western slope. They also all wear tank tops. From plain white Target style Man-tanks to surf inspired Volcom hipster sleeveless shirts, tank tops are the hippest piece of climbing apparel in the canyon. To fit into the scene at Rifle, I bought one at the Glenwood Springs Mall. The 16 year old girl at Pacific Sun told me the turquoise shirt with the navy piping looked best so I wore it to the crag the next day. The warm-ups felt easier. I crushed the first pitch of my project and headed into the extension. I felt strong in my tank. The freedom that my arms had seemed to make all the difference. Just a few feet from the anchor, I threw for a crimp, hit the hold and promptly flew off.

“FFFFUUUUCCCKKK!!” I screamed. My belayer yearded 20 feet off the ground to the first bolt. I finished the route and lowered. What had gone wrong? I looked good. I had my tank top. I had the appearance of a Rifle crusher.

“Nice farmer’s tan,” said one of the sport wankers at the Project Wall. Something snapped inside of me. That was the answer- that was the reason why I had fallen. I wasn’t tan. Not only did the Rifle climbers wear tanks but they also had tans. Despite climbing in the shade all day, the climbers managed to be tan. Coloradians tan in the shade. Point Colorado.

Jen Vennon's birthday party. Andrew and Jen were having dinner at this sushi place once when the sushi chef started belting out "Take my hand, we'll make it I swear Oh oh, livin' on a prayer Livin' on a prayer!" Apparently Bon Jovi was sitting right next to them at this Aspen restaurant. He was wearing a turtleneck. CRAZY!

My blog wouldn't be complete without a picture of Max- the scardest dog I've ever met.

The Austrailian kid came running over to the Wasteland. “Rednecks are stealing draws from the Arsenal,” he panted.

Kenny Barker ripped his Cookie Monster t-shirt off, exposing a sinewy 6 foot 3 inch frame, and transforming into a beast. He owns a pug named GusGus, coaches for a youth climbing team in Vail, but grew up in the South East. The redneck in Kenny emerged as he marched across the street with four other climbers to confront the family of thieves. The family of four was waddling in and out of limestone cave on the other side of the canyon. The father was fat and had a tripod. The 20 year old son was fat and had a face full of metal. The 10 year old son was fat and had a walking stick. The mom was fat and had a frump so big she probably hadn’t seen her vagina in a decade.

“Did you guys take a draw off a route?” Kenny asked politely. We stood behind him. We must have looked like a group of maneroxic body builders.

“I’m actually a Yosemite trad climber,” I thought, “I’ve battled the wide.” I folded my arms, pushing my fists into my biceps so they would look bigger.” If there was a brawl…

“I climbed up the route unclipped it, and then dropped the car-biner slingee. I don’t know what happened to it,” the thug son said.

“Why do you need those things up there anyway?” The fat dad’s jowls shook. “If you were real climbers, you would hang your own car-biners every time,” The redneck had a point.
He held up a keychain carabiner, “How much do those things cost? 1 or 2 bucks? What do you care anyway? They’re not your car-biners. Who cares if we’re taking someone else’s stuff- that’s none of your concern.”

The mom’s fat cheeks, her stomache, and her frump all bounced in time as she nodded in furious agreement.

“They’re part of the climbing community,” Kenny said diplomatically. “These are expensive pieces of equipment and we all use them for our own safety. When one is worn or goes missing, the climbing community replaces it. They’re expected to be there and essential to our safety. Do you really want someone to die?”

The family looked at Kenny and grimaced. Thoughts like these caused boig pains between their ears. They didn’t look happy with having to think so hard.

“Why don’t you ask your brother what happened to it? I looked- it’s not there anymore,” said the Aussie.

“You want some of this?” At the subtle accusation that the rednecks had stolen the draw, the 20 year old threw his arms in the air. The flab of his biceps swung around. “I’m from Denver.”

I had no clue where Denver was but from the looks of the fat ass it couldn’t be that tough. Things were heading to fisticuffs. Colorado was exciting after all.

“I’m just gonna be honest,” the ten year old boy squealed. He ran around the corner and returned with a $25 Petzl Quickdraw, the bottom fixed draw on Pump-A-Rama.

“Thanks a lot,” Kenny said. “Thanks for helping keep the climbing community safe and for your honesty.”

The father nodded. It was about safety after all. The young son looked at the ground.

The older one looked disappointed and pissed. He mumbled than spoke.

“Whatever,I don’t need these things,” he held up a keychain carabiner, trying to save face. “I free climb.” Point Redneck Freehander. I wish California had redneck freehanders like that.

Jed got to ride a Segway at one of his office parties for the bank he works at in Rifle. Jed's a classic Rifle character. Just check out that wolf shirt.

I’ve met Lynn Hill a few times. In Hueco. In Yosemite. This time in Rifle. Every time she asks me what my name is. I say, “James.” There’s a pause while I wait for her to say, ”I’m Lynn.” She never does and it makes me mad. Who doesn’t introduce themselves? A few years ago, her son was at the crag and threw a rock through a climbers’ window. Lynn got the guy compensation for the window and then wrote him an apology note. In with the note, Lynn added an autographed photo of herself sending the Nose on El Capitan. “Hey, so sorry my kid broke your window. Here’s a picture of me climbing harder than you ever will.” Point California for having people who keep it more real than people who live in Colorado.

The normal junk show at the Project Wall

“Are those Oreos?” My mouth watered slightly. It’d been days since I had a cookie. The backlight of the Rifle Campground fire made the tasty little treats glisten a little. I wanted one or two or eighteen.

“Actually, they’re organic Belgian chocolate crackers with a Peruvian vanilla bean filling. They’re fair trade,” she responded.

My hand shot out and stole a cookie. “Are you from Boulder?” I asked as crumbs fell out of my mouth.

“OMG! How’d you guess?” She said nearly laughing her $300 LuLuLemon Yoga Pants off.

“Like everyone in the world is from Rifle,” she said with the conviction of a religious zealot.

Danny laughed at her. He was from Atlanta.His girlfriend was from Delaware. I was from California. No one around the campfire except the girl from Boulder was from Colorado. The Austrailian kid and his Canadian girlfriend weren’t even from the States. No point for Colorado on that one. Actually Colorado loses a point.

Hanging at the Arsenal- Photo by Lukas Hill

Laos. Vietnam never felt this muggy. Sweat pours down my body. It’d be better if it was raining on the Project Wall. It would be less humid. The conditions suck. I shouldn’t care but I do. Instead of not getting attached to anything in Rifle, I started projecting. Bad Idea. I one hung 3 different 12ds in the same day and couldn’t manage to send any of them. I’m starting to wobble. I decide to take my fitness to the next level.

Rifle attracts all sorts of weirdos

At the end of the month, I was ready. Honed. Conditioned. I went into the comp with high expectations. There would be a cash prize. If I won the contest, the award would pay for my entire month of climbing. I’d done some prepping with Kenny Barker the week before.

The 40th annual Mountain Fair Festival in Carbondale attracted hoards of hippies, carnies who set up booths to hawk glass vases, do angel readings and make a few bucks from fat locals. I stopped by the pie baking booth as early as I could on Saturday morning. “You’re fruit number 1,” the official told me when I dropped off my lattice butter crust organic Granny Smith apple pie. I knew the competition would be stiff. The Olympic Sprinters of pie baking come out to the Mountain Fair festival for the contest. Over a dozen contestants enter into each of the three categories- fruit, crème and exotic. This year was no different.

Some of the other contestants at the bake off

“Randy has no sense of direction. He can’t find anything and has no clue what’s going on around him. Oof!” That’s when Beth ran into three people walking the other way at the summer fair. Andrew, Randy Puro, Beth and I cruised through the fair, scoping out the scene and stopping by to see Jen Vennon;’s origami earring booth (which was rad)

My bad ass pie

With a couple of cherry pies made with Kenny in Aspen under my belt, and a slew of other pies this year in Bishop, I knew I stood a fair chance. I spent 4 hours baking at Andrew’s house. Sunday morning was a great big disappointment to me. Carbondale resident Judy Harvey destroyed the competition, winning the fruit section with a marian berry, raspberry, blackberry pie. She also placed third in exotic. She’s won over 20 ribbons in the past few years for her baking expertise. Sandbagging locals. Point Colorado.

This is the part where I talk a little bit more about climbing. I do climb a lot. Blah blah blah fall fall fall send send send. It’s just about all the same but this time I went somewhere new. I’ll wrap things up now.

Put yourself out there. Try something new. Fail. Fail. Succeed. Grow as a person. It’s not easy but it’ll make you a better person and a better climber. Being willing to push yourself is a requirement of success. I don’t know how many points Colorado had in the end. I can’t count to twenty with my shoes on. I do know that I went out there, tried something new, failed, succeeded, grew, and mostly importantly had a good time with lots of great people. My trip to Rifle was fun, the way climbing trips should be.

Yosemite Spring 2011

2011-07-15T15:43:00.001-07:00

Picture four limbs flailing in the air, a tangle of ropes whizzing by, and a man screaming. Lucho called me from the hospital that evening. There had been an accident.

I arrived in Yosemite with high hopes of free climbing a new big wall route. John and I woke up early, marched up the east ledges of El Capitan, and rappelled from the summit down to the two crux pitches on the FreeRider, the easiest free route up El Capitan. After warming up by toproping the Enduro Corner (5.12b), John and I headed down to the boulder problem, a section of 5.12d and the hardest moves on the whole route. We got schooled. John really wanted to climb the Freerider this season and getting shut down on the boulder problem was demoralizing. This 20 foot section of rock would stop us from a free ascent of El Cap. 20 feet on a 3,000 foot climb. Brutal. Before we made the long rappels to the ground, I gave John a hug on the side of El Cap. Climbing is hard.

Lucho and I climbing at Killer Pillar- Ben Ditto Photo

John and Lucho climbed Demon’s Delight, a 5.11- traversing route on Schultz’s Ridge below the East Buttress of El Capitan. The initial 3 pitches traverse leftwards and then the final pitch climbs straight up through a 5.11 mantle. Lucho followed the last pitch. At the belay, Lucho asked John if the rope was middle marked. The rope’s mark was highly faded from use. Lucho didn’t have a rappel device so John lowered him to the bolted belay at the top of the third pitch, approximately 90 feet off the ground. Lucho stayed tied in. John double rope rappelled but neglected to even out the ropes. Lucho saw the uneven ropes but didn’t say anything. John descended until he was ten feet above Lucho and a hundred ten feet above the ground. Then the rope went through his belay device and John started free falling.

Tim Derohen and I went climbing for the first time 11 years ago. Vermont Academy, the boarding school I attended in southern Vermont, hired Tim on as the climbing coach, a babysitter for a group of kids who needed an after school activities to bolster their college applications.

Coach Tim at the Keene State Bridge 12 years ago

“You didn’t have to show Grayson how to back step,” Tim said. On a trip to the gnesis sport crag of Rumney New Hampshire, Grayson Holden onsighted Romancing The Stone, a 5.10d. “He was naturally talented.” I was not. After two years of toproping on the Keene State Bridge in New Hampshire and other tiny crags, I managed to send Yoda- a steep 5.9 sport climb at Rumney. I moved to Yosemite a year later and started a ten year love affair with granite. I saw Tim a few times over the years when he came out to Yosemite.

We headed out to Washington’s Column. Jake Whittaker and I had dabbled on Planck’s Constant earlier in the season, trying the pitch twice. The crux of Quantum Mechanic follows a 5.11 crack to an enormous roof, which traverses left for 40 feet. It’s not an undercling- it’s a THUNDERCLING! Tim and I climbed the middle portion of Mid-East Crisis. We aided up beautiful corner pitches, scoping them for a free line. I returned with John Schmid and we freed the pitches in sections. I fixed ropes half way up the Column and returned to drill a lead bolt connecting the top of the crack system to some face climbing on the arête.

John’s arms flailed through the air. In an attempt to slow himself down, he grabbed Lucho’s end of the rope. The rope burned through his hand and he got tangled up in the other end. John crashed into the branches of an oak tree 100 feet from where he fell. After a few moments, Lucho heard him. “I’m alive! I’m alive!” Lucho fixed the rope and rapped down to John, who was precariously balanced in the branches. He clipped him into his belay device and the two rappelled to the ground. Lucho ran to the meadow, grabbed Dave Turner and the pair carried John down to the car. They drove to the hospital in Merced, where John was treated for 3rd degree burns on his hand, other minor rope burns, two slightly sprained ankles, and a pulled tendon in his elbow.

All Phoenix pictures by Michael Pang

Climbing in Yosemite involves toiling. Hike to the base, hump a big back pack, do some sketchy approach pitches, climb one splitter, epic topping out, scramble back down to the base, hike down at dark hungry and tired to deal with whatever fucked up camping and food storage scene you have going on in the Valley floor. That’s an easy day. A day when your friend doesn’t fall a hundred feet. The day after John’s fall, I jumared up his line on Demon’s Delight, rappelled, and then went to El Cap meadow and drank. The next day, I jumared up my four fixed lines on Washinton’s Column and rappelled the route, cleaning it as I went down. I was terrified rappelling down the wall, still shaken up by John’s fall. Yosemite was crushing me. I would have to return in the fall.

Hike from the top of Cascade Falls, rappel 60 feet to a stance, then head down another 120 feet, and you’ll reach the base of the Phoenix- one of Yosemite’s famous difficult crack climbs. An ascent of this route is a nice feather in any climbers cap and I managed to toprope it from below the crux. So I tried to lead it. This did not go as planned. I climbed pinned out 5.12 stemming, and placed a crappy piece inside a pin scar that opened up in the back. The climbing felt too hard to put in a more solid piece. I wanted to send the route so I punched it into the crux.

That’s when I fell. My cam popped out of the crack. I fell on a fixed piton. When I stopped, I was right next to Ashely, my belayer.

I pulled the rope, climbed through the stemming and then hung my way through the crux. I was scared. I climbed through the thin fingers section after the crux. I tried to place a cam but my smallest piece was too big. I tried to stuff it higher, than lower, than higher. Eventually I tossed the piece over my shoulder, and kept climbing. I got massively pumped, tried to down climb, got scared, and jumped. Ashley tied me off and went searching in the poison oak for the cam I had thrown. Thankfully she found it. I climbed the rest of the route without incident. I went back a week later with Jens Holsten and tried the route again. It was offensively hot. I couldn’t stick the technical jams at the crux. I needed a hug.

The day before my failed redpoint attempt, Alex Honnold free soloed the route. Honnold's actions were part of a Vendetta. We met 5 years ago in Squamish. When I told him I'd fallen off the crux of the notorious 10d offwidth Pipeline, he went and soloed it. When I was driving to Zion to free climb Moonlight Buttress, he told me he had soloed it a few days before. Regular route on Half Dome, The Rostroman, just about any long hard free route I've tried- same thing. Since I’d been working on the Phoenix this spring- getting close- so you know what Alex did?

Llyod Christmas in Foresta

Honnold’s a nice guy- for a dick.

“Speaking of ugly,” John Long leaned against the porch wall in El Portal as Lara Logan, the voluptuous 60 Minutes correspondent walked out to the group of men.

“Speaking of washed up has been rock climbers,” Lara knew how to work the film crew, flirting coquettishly and with just the right amount of sass.

Logan, along with half a dozen of out of shape camera men, met Peter Mortimier, Rob Frost, and Sender Films intern Kyle to film Honnold soloing the Choinard Herbert on the Sentinel. Long and Logan stood at the base watching him climb while Yosemite locals Mikey Schaefer, Dave Turner, and Ben Ditto dangled from ropes filming Honnold climb the route.

“Ho man! Looks a little touch and go up there,” Long commentated when Alex climbed through a bit of wet 5.10. Alex had climbed the route twice that season and had it pretty worked out. It wasn’t very touch and go at all despite the few wet holds. Alex is a calculated soloist. Long hammed it up for Logan and the 60 Minutes crew at the base. The ascent went by smoothly. A couple of times, Alex had to sit on a ledge for half an hour while the film crew jumared higher on their fixed ropes.

“How’s the view?” Logan asked Honnold in a radio interview at the summit.

“It’s good. But if I wanted the view I would have hiked around to the top,” Honnold said.

I cackled in the background, cracking up at Honnold’s penchant honesty. Mortimier and Kyle shot me a glance to quiet down, afraid that my braying would be recorded onto the interview. The Sender Films hired porters to hike a load to the top and then carry another one day. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to make a bunch of money, hang out in the 60 Minutes rented house, eat tons of food and drink lots of beer. I swooped. Ca-Caw!

A hungry climber, Coach caught a snake for lunch on the hike to the top of the Sentinel

Ben Ditto suggested that we were encouraging Honnold’s soloing. We were certainly participants in the stunt and were making money off of Alex’s life threatening climbs. It’s true. We had all hopped on the 60 Minutes gravy train when it rolled through but if we hadn’t who would? Not sure what else to say but that I hoped Alex doesn't die.

Ditto in the heat of El Portal

The heat, the traffic, and mostly the amount of work that needs to get done to go climbing in Yosemite worked me. My 8a card suffered and so did my fragile fragile ego. I climbed with Jens Holsten for a few days in Tuolumne but despite the great weather and being able to climb with one of my long time friends, I needed to escape. I spent the week with Kim, climbing in the gym, and with the next member of the 100 foot club- John Schmid.

Schmid lives

I hoped to salvage my season by becoming a bad ass gym climber and impressing Kim. I definitely didn’t do the former and the latter is still in question.

All I do is rock climb and to a great extent, my feeling of worth is directly linked to how well I climb. While it’s bad to attach myself so greatly to something as abstract as scaling a rock, I can’t help myself. I complained to Ben Ditto about not having done anything this season. “You’re putting in work for the future,” he told me.

I kept that in mind as I packed my car and made the 18 hour drive to Rifle Colorado. I was working for the future.

Unusual Suspects- Brittany Griifith

2011-05-08T21:39:00.000-07:00

Brittany Griffith wrote this story about our recent climb on Moonlight Buttress in Zion. The original is posted over at the Patagonia Website- The Cleanest Line

Unusual Suspects

My springtime objective (okay, to be perfectly honest, it has been a dream of mine for a long time) of free climbing Zion’s Moonlight Buttress was quickly unraveling. My partner, Nellie, had spent the previous night projectile vomiting in a rental van. Puke everywhere—in her shoes, on her pack and on the rope.

NellienMebus

[Bummed on the bus. After failing on their first attempt, Nellie and Brittany contemplate their next shot. Photo: Cedar Wright]

As Nellie shivered and sweated in her sleeping bag, cursing the runny eggs she had eaten the previous morning, her boyfriend, Cedar, suggested I try James as an alternative partner.

“James?” I grumbled. All these years I had envisioned doing the route with a girlfriend, or at the very least with my husband as he hauled ice water, nori rolls and summit beers behind me. I didn’t even really know James. All I really knew about him was that everyone called him “Big Fall James” because of his miraculous survival from a 200-foot free-soloing fall in Joshua Tree.
“Where is he now?” I hadn’t seen him since early Thursday morning.

“I think he went back to Vegas to get his car and do laundry.”

“What kind of car does he have?” I feel you can tell a lot about a person by the car they drive—if their ride is a junk show, you can assume they are, too. It’s basic police profiling.

“A Saturn station wagon.” Definitely not a good sign, but I was desperate.

I texted James at 1pm on Friday, “Do u wan clim MB tomrw?”

Seconds later my phone chirped, “ok. Packing be there at 5”. I guess laundry could wait.

James arrived at camp as promised at 5. He was wearing a tight neon pink threadbare T-shirt that had iron-on black block lettering that read, “University of Yosemite”. I took a look inside James’ Saturn (which he lived in, by the way) and it appeared he was on his way to the Salvation Army for a drop-off. Some of the items strewn about included an old Snoopy t-shirt (screen printed with “I’m kinda a big deal”) fashioned into a bag, which he had stuffed with clothes (or maybe his laundry?), a paper Trader Joe’s grocery bag that was torn and spilling its contents of cereal, potato chips and dried mangos, and a suspicious looking plastic bin that upon closer inspection I surmised was his bathroom kit on account of the multiple toothbrushes and Costco-sized Trojan box.

I also noticed that the interior dome light dangled from exposed wires. “How do you like my chandelier?” James humorously offered up.

SaturnChandelier

[Saturn chandelier. Photo: Brittany Griffith]

James’ Saturn, a dusty, hammered relic with 175,000-plus miles and a missing passenger side mirror, was definitely a far cry from my Gypsy Van.

I did a quick scan of his climbing gear. Junk show. “We’ll use all my gear,” I said immediately.

Injuries from his 200 footer has left James with a unique gait—slow but still kinda spasmodic, like a cross between Quasimodo and a super model strutting down the runway—and as we hiked to the base of the climb the next morning, my doubts on our success were high. So was the river crossing—which James didn’t really want to do, and he balked a couple of times on the bank. I led the way, stripped to my underwear, which I think ultimately got him across.

Moonlight Buttress starts with four pitches of moderate climbing, and then is stacked with six pitches of 5.12 lead to the summit. After we cruised up the easy climbing and the first 5.12 pitch, James set off on the notorious crux layback section.

MBcorner

[Brittany grimaces on a prior unsuccessful attempt at the crux pitch. Photo: Cedar Wright]

After placing two cams in the first 40 feet, he began sketching—heavily… the rope was behind his leg and he had a cam crammed in his mouth. I heard a muffled Man Scream, sounding somewhat like a donkey in heat, and then he pitched off. James landed upside down, a few feet from my head, with the cam still in his mouth, his lips now bloody. I lowered him the few remaining feet to the anchor.

I stayed silent for a while, letting us both recompose. James sagged in his harness, his gaze fixed above.

“It’s moved into the sun now.” He said flatly. We both knew what this meant: warm rock = less friction = more effort required to hold on.

James, however, was game. He pulled the rope, tied back in, took a swig of water from the pack and headed back into the layback. That’s when I realized that James wanted it as bad as I did, and that’s all that mattered. We could do this.

He triumphantly reached the next anchor without falling, and I followed cleanly. Next, I grappled with a slot, twisting and contorting my small fingers to wedge into the deep crack, and at the top of the pitch I heaved my body up onto an ample ledge.

Jamesonpartyledge

[James patiently waits for the shade and contemplates how turkeys mate.]

We were half way there, three of the six 5.12s dispatched. We had four hours of decent light left, so we decided to take a good rest on the comfy ledge. I lasted about seven minutes before I started to get antsy and anxious. Idleness has never been my strong suit.

James, sensing my impatience, kept me distracted by asking me questions about growing up in Iowa, my numerous stepdads and about my garden. I asked him some questions, too, and here’s what I found out.

Last week he had been to a wedding in Vegas and wore his “black khakis.” I argued that khakis were khaki and therefore couldn’t be black. He said he’d look it up on the Internet.

He had seen the movie Hanna, most of Scream 4 and the last 15 minutes of Source Code the day before.

James has an identical twin!

James and Matt

[OMG there are two of you!]

After nearly an hour on the ledge, we continued climbing, freeing every pitch and swapping leads, which gave James the last pitch (which was actually a link-up of the last two pitches, making for one giant 180-foot pitch). As he left the belay, I could tell he was nervous. Free this last pitch and we’d be done, a free ascent of Moonlight.

“You got it, James.” I tried to sound cavalier, but I was nervous, too.

James finessed the tricky 5.12 crack/face and entered the final 5.10 bulge. He thrust in his last piece of gear and aggressively tackled the last steep bit of sandstone that guarded the summit. One of his legs dangled and the other was behind the rope—again. I could sense him panicking. Despite the fact that there was a real danger of him getting hurt if he fell this time, I believe he was more concerned about not doing the route. I was more concerned about his skull and that he had already used up his one “Get Out Of Death Free Card” on his Joshua Tree fall.

He stomped his dangling foot up on the rock and tried to stand up to a handhold but came up short.

“Faaawk…” he cussed. Oh shit, this was serious.

“James… we don’t fall here.” I sternly encouraged.

He quickly regrouped, refocused and punched through to the summit. Yes! I flew up the pitch after him. I couldn’t wait to see him and give him a great big hug. I was so happy for him. I guess I should have been feeling a sense of accomplishment for myself, but oddly I didn’t.

In the end, when I think back on free climbing Moonlight, I probably won’t remember the things I thought I would remember: the sequence of powerful crux locks, which cam went where, or when the route goes into the shade. I’ll remember how common culture, aspiration and stoke are what’s vital in successful partnerships—and the look of pure terror on James’ face as he went down in the raging Virgin River on our return crossing…

SaturnStoker

[James, northbound and super stoker on the I-15 after freeing Moonlight Buttress. Kids, don’t try this while driving your mom’s Prius.]

My Attorney's Advice

2011-04-01T07:49:00.000-07:00

My attorney advised me to keep climbing. The woman above me cried in the chimeney, a fish flopping through the tight passage. My attorney doesn't register the epic yet but he'll know soon enough.

The hike started early in the day. A standard Yosemite rack- singles to a 2, a pack of GU, no topos, and no water. The cotton mouth would set in before noon. Schmid and I trudged into Black Velvet canyon with Sol Wertkin, a friend from Leavenworth Wa, nipping closely on our heels. I stared down the holds on a boulder problem sitting in the wash.

"The right exit is V7. The straight up is V11," Sol said. "But who cares about the boulders. Liberty Cap." The Washingtononians love to hike. That summer Sol had sent the Thin Red Line on the back country formation. He hiked for days to get out to it, and then climbed a few hard pitches. Sloggers all of them. My legs turn to jelly at the mention of cross country miles. I spent the winter bouldering. My back was a pizza slice and my body unused to the death marches. I wish I had a crash pad to sit underneath the boulder.

"Never sandbag your girlfriend," my attorney said. "That guy is not getting laid tonight." Epinephrine is a neurotransmitter, a hormone that increases heart rate, constricts blood vessels, dilates air passages and participates in the fight-or-flight response of the sympathetic nervous system. That's what Wikipedia says. The girl screaming in the chimeney would have said Epinephrine is the worst route in Las Vegas.

"We'll climb slowly up to them and then pass quickly. They won't notice us if we can keep from laughing." I wonder if he was seeing the girl turn into a fish.

Epinephrine climbs for 1600 feet up a buttress in Black Velvet Canyon, just outside of Las Vegas. Four hundred feet of climbing up through ledge systems leads to a large chimeney system for three hundred feet, followed by another nine hundred feet of scrambling to a ridge to the summit. The crux is the chimeney section, which is sparsely protected by bolts. It's a better route than the Steck Salathe- less pin scars and some classic Indian Creek-esque splitters.

John Schmid, my attorney ran the Oakland Marathon earlier this week, sprinting the whole thing out in 3:30. For John, all the hiking felt easy. I constantly wanted to sit down in the shade. My mouth tasted like cotton. Schmid is a marathon man. He advised me to keep walking.

The ridge eventually headed back down to the wash. It was a death camp march. I hate slogging. At 5 we reached the base of Frogland, a dog sat at the base. After stealing some people's water, we climbed the route. John went first. I spotted him as he soloed across a traverse under a roof. He crossed to a two finger pocket and went to a jug. He sprayed me beta as I soloed the move as well. Higher was a cool chockstone. I wanted to lay inside next to it. My legs were jelly and my feet were swollen. My attorney advised me to keep climbing.

We made it back to the car, fueled up, and hit the road around 7. After beers with Sol at the campground, we had dinner at the Half Yard, where we saw Bill Ramsey and Chris Weidner- those guys are famous hardmen!

The climbing was a ton of fun, and reminded me how much fun rock climbing can be! Too bad my legs feel like jelly this morning.

The Ultimate Sandbagger- John Schmid

2011-02-11T09:44:00.001-08:00

At 5’8” 145 pounds with brown hair and brown eyes, the 29 year old John Schmid appears like a mild mannered rock climber. After receiving a biology degree from Colorado College, where he began rock climbing ten years ago, Schmid moved to the bay area to take up a job that would support his climbing lifestyle. Schmid became a murse- a male nurse. During the graveyard shift, Schmid works in the neo-natal intensive care unit of Alta Bates in Berkeley where he saves the lives of sick little babies.

Schmid on the Tuolumne classic On the Lamb (5.9) photo by Mikey Schaefer

A hard working regular Joe during the evening, Schmid transforms during daylight hours. When the sun comes up John Schmid is a rock crushing super hero! A solid trad climber with ascents of Zion’s Moonlight Buttress (V 5.12d), Indian Creek’s Optimator (5.13-), and an onsight of Yosemite’s Tales of Power (5.12b), John’s ability to crack climb comes from his years destroying the back of his hands in Indian Creek and Joshua Tree.

After becoming a crack warrior, Schmid headed to Yosemite in an attempt to learn to wall climb. “A few years ago, Geoff Christensen and I climbed the Regular Route on Half Dome (VI 5.9 A2) in a longish day. We topped out in the light. Then James Lucas encouraged us to climb the Nose in a Day. We believed him that we could do it. We made good time climbing to the Great Roof but then it got dark and we got tired. We only had ATCs. We fell asleep with the ropes wrapped around our arms to arrest the other climber’s fall. We topped out in 27 hours 45 minutes. It was a long day. Thanks. James.”

“I’m a good weekend climber,” said the notoriously modest Schmid. On a recent trip to Bishop, Schmid climbed his second, third, fourth, and fifth outdoor V6s. He hiked the steep Every Color You Are and then nearly flashed Atari, falling on the last move and then sending the problem a few minutes later. After a morning at the Buttermilks, where he claims to have gotten worked, Schmid dispatched Mr. Witty (v6) 2nd try and flashed Rene (V5 highball). He also sent Strength in Numbers (a highball V5) and Molly (v5) and French Press (v6) on a subsequent trip to the Sads. “I don’t boulder. I can’t hold things very well.”

John onsigting Tales of Power (5.12B) photo by Max Hasson

Despite his "inability" to boulder, Schmid climbs with a significant amount of tenacity and dedication. One morning, Schmid downed a half dozen Monster energy drinks and left Berkeley before sunrise to climb Yosemite’s classic Beggar’s Buttress (IV 5.11c). On arriving in “the Ditch”, it started raining. Neither John nor his partner had checked the weather. Determined to climb, Schmid smoked a couple cigarettes than hoofed down to Kaukulator, a slightly overhanging 5.11c test piece on the Rostrum. After hiking the crux, Schmid fought his way throw the notoriously difficult and sandbagged 10c offwidth at the top. Schmid grunted, moaned, and squirmed as he climbed the wrong way into the crack. In an impressive onsight, Schmid clipped the anchors and started to lower. A quarter of the way back to the ground, Schmid yelled to his belayer to stop. For the second time that day it started raining- the second time it wasn't water but Schmid puking from the monstrous effort.

Untitled from James Lucas on Vimeo.

“I’m already a plastic prince,” said Schmid of his constant presence at the Touchstone gyms. A long time indoor climber, Schmid grew up in LaFayette and climbed at Conord’s Diablo Rock Gym before moving to Temescal. Schmid splits his time between Great Western Power Company and Berkeley Ironworks climbing with the tough guy sport crew. He climbs with Tony Calvert and Ethan Scwartz, whom he mostly climbs routes with. “I really want to climb 5.13 in the gym so that I can tell James (the Touchstone blogger). My climbing career peaked 5 years ago in Indian Creek. I want to get back to that high point and tell James.”

Schmid employs a well known climbing tactic- that of the sandbag. He enjoys downplaying his abilities and then serendipitously sending your project. I am thinking about punching in the head for all the times he's sandbagged me.

John on Equinox (5.12c) in Joshua Tree

Schmid will be spending the rest of the week in Bishop. James hopes to sandbag him before he heads back to the bay to send the 5.13 at Ironworks.

Saving Mule Days

2011-01-26T22:46:00.001-08:00

It’s Wednesday, January 26, 2011. I am anchoring a couch in Bishop California, letting my skin heal from climbing on the granite boulders of the Buttermilks. I am here for the climbing. I am also here for the job.

I wake up on hump day with a list. Statistically speaking, suicides occur most often in the middle of the week. Shots in the head and a planted gun, a suicide note and a push off the building, and the old “accidental overdose” happen on Wednesdays because assassination attempts in the middle of the week often look like suicides. The list of lives to save, of “suicides” to stop, begins and ends with one person: Neal McCoy.

On Wednesdays, I work my part time job as a secret agent. Wednesdays are busy days.

This is what I look like in uniform.

I tussle my hair in the bathroom mirror. Secret agents have a casual clean look. Think James Bond. They also have good oral hygiene so I brush my teeth. My contact wants to meet at Schatz, a busy and buttery local bakery. I do a few pull ups on a bar hanging above the bathroom door to make room for an apple fritter and walk down to meet the CIA spook.

Practicing my shooting at a Bishop firing range.

I pretend to examine the rows of danishes. Really, I am watching the reflection of people walking into the bakery in the glass display. I am also counting the number of apples in the fritters two rows down. Secret agents are good at multi-tasking. My contact doesn’t recognize me. I am disguised as a derelict rock climber. I blend in to the environment of the East Side of the Sierras. That’s why the CIA hired me; I can blend in. I watch the contact pretend to read the news paper. I sit at the table next to him and eat an apple fritter. I should have flossed. The contact looks around the room suspiciously, glances at his watch, then leaves. He doesn’t bring his suitcase.

Secret agents love apple fritters. You should too.

On Memorial Day Weekend in Bishop, more than 700 mules compete in 181 events at the Tri-County fairgrounds for the Mule Days Celebrations. Thursday night, a couple days before the longest ever running non-motorized parade, more than 30,000 people pack into the stands of the fair to see the show’s headliner. This year Neal McCoy, a 52 year old Irish Filipino country musician from Texas, will be starring the show. McCoy’s Billboard hits include “No Doubt About It,” “Wink,” and “Billy’s Got His Beer Goggles On.” He’s a perfect crowd pleaser for the desert town. He’s also a perfect candidate for a highly publicized suicide.

The target: Country crooner Neal McCoy

My contact’s briefcase include McCoy’s itinerary for a day reconnaissance to Bishop for a Mule Day's publicity shoot. It also includes information about the assassination attempt. A crazed member of the Bishop Chamber of Commerce decided that the death of McCoy would bring more tourism to the town than an actual show. Bishop will be the next Graceland, a place thriving on the memorabilia of a dead star. A suicide would look best- at the very least people would go to the Thunderbird Inn to see where McCoy died.

Orange juice is good. Lots of Vitamin C. Lots of antioxidants. Lots of good good stuff. For McCoy the morning orange juice would contain heavy amounts of hydrocodone bitartrate and acetaminophen, or Vicodin, an opiod that in heavy amounts is lethal. Cue pun about pulp in the orange juice.

Drink Milk cause OJ will kill you. That's right. Secret Agents make bad jokes. The difference is if you don't laugh, I'll kill you.

McCoy required that there be good old fashion oj at his hotel room for his 9 am continental breakfast. The Thunderbird Inn imports their Minute Maid from the nearby Vons. From there it hits the kitchen, and then McCoy’s room. Room service would be dropping dissolvable pills in and then housekeeping would be staging the “suicide”. My Wednesday mission was to stop that orange juice.

After finishing my apple fritter, I tussled my hair again. Look good Be good- that’s the motto they taught me at my old alma mater HBSAS (Handsome Boy Secret Agent School). I headed down the street as the innkeeper stepped out of his Dodge Dakota with a gallon of Minute Maid. At the back door, I karate chopped the room service man in the neck as he was taking a cigarette break. After changing into his uniform, I ran inside and grabbed the already poured oj. The innkeeper yelled behind his back, “Smitty, go to room 211 before you hit McCoy at 200. There’s something the Mule Days chairman needs you to deliver down the hall.”

“Room service,” I knocked shave and a haircut-two bits on the door. The chairman brought me in, double checking the hallway. He pulled out a wad of bills. It was a hundred wrapped around a dozen ones. He pulled from the middle of the pile, and stuffed the bills into my pocket. It amounted to $6. Cheap bastard.

“McCoy needs his sleeping pills in his breakfast,” he cracked a dozen Viocidins onto a piece of paper on the nightstand and brought the powder over to my tray.

The Thunderbird: free continental breakfast, lots of bed bugs, and home of an assassination attempt.

“Not on your life Chairman!” I did a flying crane kick, knocking the powder out of his hands and drop kicking him on the head. “I bet you didn’t know that there were bad-ass handsome secret agents around Bishop did you!? Well, the CIA will be having words with you!” I cuffed him to the bed and texted the Spook that the mission was accomplished.

I delivered the oj to McCoy’s room. I didn’t ask for an autograph, though I should have. I saved his life.

I headed home. The dog needed to be walked. It was 10:00. I had a busy day. The couch still needed to be anchored.

Thank God I saved McCoy. He'll be playing Bishop's favorite song at Mule Days

Gang Related

2011-01-18T09:43:00.000-08:00

Lucho loved two types of music. “This shit is gangster,” Lucho claimed. We listened to Tupac Shakur. “This shit is also gangster,” he fiddled the knobs on the iPod. Phil Collins came on. Lucho was a true gangster. We were driving to down canyon Yosemite to climb on the sunny winter cliffs. Black ice coated the road. Phil Collins was signing about the air tonight. Lucho’s Toyota Tacoma hit the ice, skidded across the road to one side. Lucho over corrected and his pick-up hit the snow embank. Phil Collins sang about holding on. The truck flipped and we ended up sideways. Lucho’s shoulder pressed into the yellow line of the road. Glass covered the road from the broken driver’s side window. I hung sideways, supported by the passenger seat belt. Lucho told me to get out quick in case the truck exploded. An hour later, a California Highway Patrol officer flipped the rig onto its wheels with the winch from his suv. The truck ran fine. It didn’t explode- just a lot of dents and broken glass. Too bad about the explosion- that shit would have been gangster.

Lucho painting his house on York St.

Lucho ‘s lived on San Francisco Mission District’s York Street for thirty years. In fifth grade, he joined the Nortenos. They claimed red. Outside of a place they called the Dungeon, the basement in a crack house, a half dozen kids jumped him into the gang. They kicked him, punched him, and beat him for twenty-three seconds. The gang claimed 23rd street. When a group of wetbacks, claiming brown, showed up on 23rd street, the Nortenos grabbed pipes, bats, and chains to reclaim their territory. The smallest kid wearing brown pulled a hand gun out when the Nortenos were across the street. He emptied his pistol on them. Lucho and his gang dashed. A Norteno was shot. Another Norteno pulled a pickup around, Lucho and the others threw the shot kid in the back of the truck, and they dashed to the hospital. They left the shot kid at the emergency room. Lucho was 16. That shit is kind of gangster.

York St in the Mission

Lucho met Cedar Wright in the boulders behind Camp 4. Lucho had some chronic weed. Cedar had a strong desire to smoke it all. They hung out often. Imagine that. They climbed together too. Cedar needed a belayer on his numerous projects. He wanted to freeclimb Wild Apes, an aid route established on Higher Cathedral rock by three local climbers. Cedar convinced Lucho to come with him. Cedar attempted to free the Banana Chute, a difficult thin crack next to a chimney system. The climbing proved too difficult and he tried the next major feature, a huge roof. With Lucho hanging at a bolt next to a crack, Cedar freed the Gravity Ceiling, a 5.13- 30’ crack route. Gangster. Lucho learned a lot. They hiked to Higher Cathedral 8 times. He definitely learned how to hike. The weed supply dimished. Imagine that. Later, the pair headed up to the Turkey Chute on Liberty Cap to attempt another new free route. They climbed high onto the formation, came to some difficult climbing, and retreated. They pulled their ropes and granite blocks came down on their heads. A large baseball fell onto Lucho’s shoulder and broke his clavicle. Cedar and Lucho hiked down the hill together. There was nothing gangster about being hurt.

Zach Romero sat in Coiler’s shop in Chinese Camp. I’m not sure what year it was- sometime before the stripper pole went up and after the three dozen license plates got hung on the wall. A couple cute girls from Tahoe, friends of Coiler tossed back beers for us. They talked about Lucho, who was famous for his suave. “Platinum and I went to the gym the other day,” I told Romero. “Lucho showed up half an hour late. When he walks in, he gets right on our gym project. He’s half way up the route, throwing his limbs all over, screaming like Bruce Lee, and totally going for it. He sets up to throw, and launches himself into the plastic world.” The girls start listening when they hear of Lucho’s heroics in the plastic palace. A thousand pieces of paper exploded out of his pockets as he dynos across the wall. As he’s picking up stuff up, I realize he’s picking up condoms.” Romero cackles, and notices the ladies perking up. “Magnums,” he interjects. “Really!?”, said one of the girls, “Little Lucho?” “Yeah, he’s got a six inch dick- when he folds it in half,” I added. It’s good to make your friends sound like gangsters, even if it’s not necessarily true.

Lucho on Wapama Rock in Hetch Hetchy.

Before the Tacoma exploded outside the park, Lucho and I were driving through Tuoulumne. It was late. The moon was high in the sky. It was cold. As we came into the meadow, Lucho’s headlights hit the body of a fawn laying on the shoulder of the road. He slowed, then stopped. He stepped out of the car, walked to the still warm body, and carried the dead fawn off into the woods. “It’s a better place for it to die,” he said. "I couldn't leave it there." He returned to the truck and we drove off. Lucho was a true gangster.

The Price Is Right

2011-01-08T10:05:00.001-08:00

The 4th of 10 Kochajkis, Michael “DynoMike” Kochajki spent the first few of his 36 years in Los Angeles, where he somehow picked up a Boston accent. He's always been one to stand out in a crowd. Recently, out of an audience of five hundred, famous television personality Drew Carrey picked DynoMike to be the next contestant on the Price is Right. Though the show has changed a little since the days of Bob Barker, it is essentially the same. Big breasted gown wearing ladies still wave their hands in front of $19 automatic wine bottle openers and contestants still have to guess what the price is. It was very very exciting. Here was another opportunity for DynoMike to judge what was fair.

He appears at 18:58 in the show, which is conveniently online.

For the past thirteen years, Michael Kochajki’s head has protruded through the small window in between the grill and the store. Every summer, the Tuolumne Meadows Postmaster hands out packages to passing hikers, often staying open on weekends, holidays and after hours to deliver resupplies for Pacific Crest Trail hikers (The real deal hikers who “smell like shit and are gracious”)- and the shorter John Muir Trail hikers (The guys who “pack the kitchen sink”).

The Post Office Window

For half of Kochajki’s term as post-master, park visitation was down in the northern section of Yosemite National Park. The economic recession led many people towards stay-cations. Instead of traveling, people stayed at home. A 2010 Ken Burns documentaries on the national parks prompted thousands of people to head to Yosemite. Suddenly, Yosemite was a weekend choice for local Californians and a great place for people looking to save money. “The numbers are way up, there’s a huge impact on Tuolumne,” a long time supporter of the park environment, Kochajki voiced his concerns about a potential problem in the park. “Tuolumne isn’t set up for high level volume. There’s parking problems. They need to put a limit on visitation,” Kochajki said about the “Kens Burns Affect”. “It’s like inviting ants to a picnic.” Overrunning the park with visitors wasn’t fair to the park.

Dyno Mike helping a customer- probably his mom

One of Kochajki’s greatest fears is that the overall quality of park visitors diminishes with quantity. “We don’t want the Meadows turning into Santa Cruz,” Kochajki said about all the dirtbags who have shown up in the Meadows. “People think they’re Vietnam Vets.” Hundreds of climbers pass through the parking lot and the post office during the season. Many of them are the kinds of dirtbags that the postmaster detests. “They need to go to Bank of America and open a SAVE IT account,” said Kochajki.

Mike in the post office with his disco ball

Not all climbers hate Kochajki though. Many have a strong admiration for the guy. “We loved what you did with the shit box,” A pair of old climbers told Kochajki a few years ago.

Earlier that same summer, a ranger rode into the employee housing zone behind the Tuolumne Meadows store while a number of employees were eating breakfast. It was a cereal party. Everyone had different kinds of cereal- Lucky Charms, Granola, Raisin Bran. There was whole milk, almond milk and soy milk. It was a good time.

Then the ranger’s horse stopped right next to where everyone was eating. The horse took a massive shit next to the table. The locals were not happy.

“You’re gonna clean that up right?” Kochajki said to the ranger. The ranger muttered a response about a shovel and next time.

Tuolumne Meadows Store, Post Office and Grill

“Just like the shit, I was fuming,” said Kochajki. The rangers, known as the Green Gestapo for their green uniforms, had callous regard for all park users. They often acted without regard for their environment or the people around them. Kochajki and his fellow employees thought about what to do. They noted that government property should be returned and DynoMike was the guy who delivered packages. Kochajki took a box from the post office, scooped the poop into it and brought it to the ranger station. He knocked on the door, waited and then left when no one answered. As he pulled away, a ranger came out and stepped in the box. They were ankle deep in horse shit. The office ranger identified Kochajki’s car. An officer known locally as ODP “Officer Dumpy Pants” was waiting for him when he returned to the employee area. ODP wrote Kochajki a ticket for terrorist threats against the National Park Service. Kochajki was the Unabomber, a man who left dangerous unmarked packages on government property.

DynoMike the Terrorist

Kochajki brought the matter to the original ranger, the one with the pooping horse. Kochajki told the officer there was no malicious intent in returning the package. It was simply a matter of karma. Additionally, lawyers would be involved and the officer would be held accountable. There were a number of employee witnesses. “Listen,” Kochajki said, “your name will be dragged through the shit.” The incident was expunged from his record.

The old climbers thanked Kochajki profusely. The relationship between climbers and rangers has always been a tense one with climbers often getting the short end of the stick. Since that summer, Kochajki has become a bit of a hero. DynoMike was the guy who shanked the bully.

Dynomike trying to hear his friend's shouting the right price on the Price is Right

On the Price is Right, DynoMike guessed the price of a 3g smart phone with a one year contract as $2000 dollars. The next lady guessed $750. The next guy guessed $1250. A dick headed army private guessed $1251, eliminating the guy before him. The actual retail price was $1930. The rules state that the prize goes to the person who guesses the closest without going over. DynoMike overshot the price by $70 and lost to the army private who was $680 under. I am not sure if that rule is really fair but life isn’t really fair. People get screwed all the time. The Tuolumne employees got screwed by the ranger and his negligent horse care. The park environment is getting screwed by the excess number of visitors. Unfairness is a sad sad thing. Luckily, there is still justice in life. When people give you shit, you can put it in a box and drop it on their doorstep.

Great Success!

Tears in the Desert

2010-12-07T11:51:00.000-08:00

My knee twisted, crackled, and I crumpled onto the iron rock. The pain shot into my joint.

“Are you going to be ok?” Thomosina asked. The half dozen people around me stared in sympathy. None of them had spotted. It was my second day of a planned four week climbing trip in Hueco Tanks, Texas. It would be my last day climbing. I should have asked for a spot on See Spot Run (V6).

I was unsure how I should respond to Thomasina’s question. What was my long time friend looking for? Did she want an actual answer or was she looking for reassurance? In the future sense- yes- I would be ok. It’s not like I fell a hundred feet climbing without a rope, and even if I had, I would be “ok.” But did my knee hurt? Did I just drive 1200 miles to tear a ligament? Did I need surgery, insurance, or the money to afford both? Did I think I was ok?

“I’ll be ok.” I tried to reassure her but I didn’t know myself. I stood up gingerly, testing the uncertain strength of my knee. I could walk but it hurt. I wished I had something to support me. I hobbled around grabbing my climbing shoes. I walked slowly and painfully to the parking lot and Max’s van. I laid on his foam and plywood bed, propped my leg on a duffle bag of his camera gear, and swallowed some Vicodin. I would be ok- in the future sense. At the moment, there was no future sense; there was just pain in my knee. Max and Thomasina, my climbing partners, would be out bouldering the rest of the day. I wanted to fester in the desert.

I’m not sure why he came up to me. Perhaps, he saw a man unable to move, someone who couldn’t leave when he talked. He stood next to the open door of the Toyota Previa while I shifted, trying to find a comfortable place to rest my rapidly swelling knee. Chris would be 18 and “a real man” the next day. He wore a ribbed white tank top, a wife-beater, and a pair of jean shorts that barely hung above his crotch. That’s what real men wear in El Paso. I told him I hurt my knee and wasn’t climbing. Then he talked to my blank face.

“I don’t feel like climbing either,” he chained smoked three cigarettes. Smoking is a socially acceptable form of suicide and Chris wanted to speed up the process. Wrought with the clichés of an angst ridden 17 year old, the sterotype of the bad kid in the after school special, Chris talked about the three different juvenile detention centers he’d been to, about the bruises he got from foster care homes, and about how horrible his life was.

“I met a man with cancer the other day.” His cheeks ballooned like he was going to exhale more Marlboro Light smoke. Nothing significant escaped his lips. It was like he was faking a burp. “I told him I would trade lives with him in a moment. I don’t care if I die in two months. The only thing I live for is mi hermana.” All he wanted was to buy her a guitar and a pony. Growing up, his family didn’t love him. They never said, “Mijo we love you,” or “Chris, you are special.” There wasn’t much love in the Texas desert. He couldn’t let his little princess live the same way.

That’s when he started crying. That’s when I started texting. I asked a friend in town if she would grab me a knee brace on her way back from El Paso. I punched the keys into my phone and stared over the Verizon wireless “sending” signal. A tear drop flowed from his right eye and down his chin. He didn’t wipe it. Another stream of water fell down the left side of his face. He didn’t wipe that off either. The reception was poor; I couldn’t receive any signals. The tears reminded me that I needed ice for my knee. I texted my friend again. Sitting around crying about my problems wouldn’t fix them. I needed to be active about my healing, get some help, and get things going. The messages were starting to go through.

At 4pm, an hour and a half after he began talking, he said, “Now, I am going to go climbing.” He faked burped again. He seemed to feel better. I was jealous- I wanted to go climbing. My knee hurt worse than when he had shown up. It would be awhile before I could climb. I did what I could to help the healing- I let go of the feelings I had, I relaxed my mind, and I waited. Healing is a slow process.

The Handsome Cover Model

2010-11-26T11:36:00.000-08:00

I baked a vegan apple pie, a regular apple pie, a sweet potato pie, a ham, and then helped with the turkey, the food prep, and the cleanup of a meal for 17-20 rock climbers in Bishop. Well, Kim did half the work. I can't take credit for all of it.

Between the truffles and the pie, Eric said, "So, you're on the cover of the new Rock & Ice and you haven't even sent the route that you were on."

"Nope," I replied. I tried Bob Jensen's Easter Island 5.12c/d on Phobos Deimos Cliff in Toulumne three times but quit when I tore a huge flapper in my finger. "But I can always go back to the route and send it. And if I don't," I looked at Eric, "I'll still be on the cover."

I figured Eric was a little jealous. Everyone wants to be on the cover of a magazine. The reality is that your friends will give you shit and the only people in your fan club will be 30 year old dudes. Climbers are an insecure lot. Yesterday, Kim and I went to Rio's Crack to try the v6 boulder problem. I thought it would climb like a crack with finger locks. I thought I would crush it. I thought wrong. Whatever. An Asian girl from the bay, started spraying as soon as we got there.

"Well, I've been working on 9s and 10s for the past few months but haven't done this one because it's really hard," she tossed her hair back. "I've done Flyboy sit (I was supposed to know that was V8), and High Plains Drifter (I was supposed to know that was V7) and this thing is really hard. I'm just trying to wrap up the lower grade problems that I haven't done."

She reeked of insecurity. I had an immediate desire, not to offer encouragement or support, to start posturing. "These moves are totally harder than the ones on Big Baby (a 5.11 offwidth in Inidian Creek Utah), and the Westie Face of Leaning Tower (a 5.13 bigwall in Yosemite)." I didn't say that though because she wouldn't understand whatI was talking about. A more appropriate response would have been, "I've been on the cover of Martha Stewart's Home living, and I totally won the chess tournament the US government sponsored in Russia last year, I don't know why I can't do this problem!" Instead I didn't say anything.

Let people deal with their own insecurities and I'll deal with my own.

Tales from the Lodge

2010-11-12T17:56:00.000-08:00

"Sit here, ok?" The younger woman took her mother and sat her down next to Fidelman, who was twirling his ankle and tapping on his computer at the Yosemite Lodge. "I'm gonna go look for Charles mom. I don't know where him and the kids went. You're gonna stay here okay?"

"Ok Kelsey," the old woman croaked.

"So just stay here mom." Kelsey looked around the room. "I'll find them and then be back in just a minute. Don't go anywhere ok?"

"Ok," the old woman shifted in her seat.

"I'll be right back. Stay here. Do not leave. You might get lost in the woods." Kelsey headed out the back door of the Lodge.

"There you are mom!" A man walked in through the front door of the Lodge. "We've been looking all over for you. Where's Kelsey?"

"Charles, she told me to stay here," she whispered. "She'll be right back. She's looking for you."

"Well, come out and get in the car." Charles helped the old woman out of her seat. "We'll find Kelsey."

"But she said to stay here.” The old woman shuffled as Charles ushered her towards the door. “She said she'd be right back."

Fidelman, a long time Yosemite local, twirled his ankle and tapped at his computer. He paid enough attention to note the tourist antics and that they were leaving out the front door.

Two minutes later, Kelsey walked in to the Lodge from the back door. "Mom?" She spun around the room. "Mom? Where are you?" She ran to the back door, turned around, then headed to the front. “Oh my god!”

Kelsey ran up to Fidelman. “Did you see an old woman leave? Do you know which way she went?”

Fidelman looked up from his computer. He nodded his head. “She left.”

“Oh my god!” Kelsey cried. “She's probably lost. She probably got eaten by a bear. Which way did she go? Where did she go?”

Fidelman twirled his ankle and pointed to the back door. “Oh, she went that way.”
Kelsey ran out the back door and Fidelman burst into laughter. “I’m going to hell for that,”

Scott Frye: Behind the Paddle

2010-11-10T17:58:00.001-08:00

I thought this was a pretty funny interview that I did with Scott Frye for the Touchstone Gym blog.

Eying his opponent from across the nine foot long table, Scott crouched and spun his paddle. The small white ball volleyed towards him. Scott blasted sideways. His paddle smashed the ball. The hit gave the ball topspin and accelerated it towards his opponent in a finalizing blow.

Frye's Coach Xin, 9 year old national champion and Frye's sparring partner Kevin Lee, and Scott Frye

Scott Frye is no ordinary ping pong player. The 53 year old Berkeley native and Touchstone Climbing Gym stock boy is also a father in the era of modern sport climbing. With the same obsession that he now plays ping pong with, he once climbed with.

In 1973, a fifteen year old Frye headed to Yosemite with Nat Smale. The pair had a carpenter’s hammer, a handful of pins, serious desire, and a lack of know-how. Using Steve Roper’s Green Guide to Yosemite they made an ascent of Church Bowl’s Aunt Fanny’s Pantry (5.6) and then attempted Black is Brown, a 5.9 and one of the hardest routes in Yosemite at the time. By trading off their one pair of climbing shoes, Frye made it to a ledge halfway up the two pitch route. Nat followed and arriving at the anchor turned white as a ghost. “Don’t move!” Nat said. He then pulled out every pin that Frye had placed with his hands. Smale quickly rebuilt the anchor. On the drive home from their near death experience, they ran off the Priest Grade road. “We went from one near death experience to another,” Frye said of the trip. Frye went back to Yosemite though and began climbing more. In 1976 with 1” tubular webbing tied around his waist, the hard old school EB shoes, and a few hexentrics, Scott lead the hands and fingers splitter Lunatic Fringe (5.10c). The climb was the hardest lead of his life. “I wouldn’t give that up for anything,” Frye said of his traditional beginnings.

At the same time that he was learning to climb the difficult cracks of Yosemite, Frye was also bouldering at Berkeley’s Indian Rock. Looking to establish something different than the sandbagged problems of Indian Rock, Frye, along with John Sherman, Harrison Dekker, and Nat Smale, ventured to the steeper stone of Mortar Rock. The overhanging rhyolite hadn’t been touched and the posse of boulderers found a series of small crimps that traversed the wall in an obvious but imposing line. “No one thought it was possible, “said Frye. They tried it anyway. Smale, the strongest of the group fought through the difficulties and established Nat’s Traverse (V8). The second ascent eluded the other climbers for a year, until Frye finally got strong enough. “All of us trained to keep up with Nat. “Frye said. Though he did a significant amount of bouldering in the bay area including the 1978 first ascent of Mortar Rock’s Jungle Fever (V8), Frye’s love for trad climbing kept him heading to Yosemite.

The Valley ethic ran strong through Frye but the bouldering at Mortar Rock pushed him towards climbing on sandstone, basalt, and limestone. “The transition from trad climbing to sport was huge, huge, huge.” Frye said. The genesis for bay area sport climbing began at Mickey’s beach, where the technical nature of the rock left the climbers wondering what to do. “Weighting the rope, even top roping was considered cheating. I didn’t want to hangdog and I brow beat people who did,” said Frye. Harrison Dekker, a bay area hard man, helped Frye break through the psychological crux of the movement. While the pair worked on Dreams of White Porsches at Mickey’s Beach, Decker noted that to send the climb they would need to break it down into little boulder problems and hang on the rope in between. The pair discovered that what the French climbers were saying at the time was true, “You could climb harder, longer sequences if you worked it out.” With these tactics, Frye traveled across the US and established new difficult sport climbs.

Scott Frye during his heyday as the Indian Rock Lowball Master photo courtesy of Harrison Dekker

Many of the hardest rock climbs of the day were put up by Frye including Rifle Colorado’s Living in Fear (5.13d/5.14a), Donner Summit’s Steep Climb Named Desire (5.13d), the Virgin River Gorge’s Dude (5.13c), and the Marin Coast’s Surf Safari (5.14a). His traditional ethics never left him while he sport climbed and he remains an advocate of minimal impact. One of the things he laments is all the fixed draws at places like Donner Summit’s Star Wall, where Steep Climb resides. Talking about his first ascent ethics he noted that back in the day, “If a route was 60 % bolts we’d just make it 100%.” Unfortunately one of the natural digressions in climbing is a conversion from bolts to fixed chains. At the Star Wall, the six foot long metal chains can be seen from the nearby Pacific Crest Trail. “As a non climber walking up and seeing that I would be offended,” Frye said. “If I had known it would go that way, I would have put less bolts and more gear in.”

At 44, Frye finally returned to the home of his traditional beginning but this time he went to Yosemite to boulder. Though he had been around for the first ascent of Thriller, he had always stayed away from the smalls rocks. “When people started to just boulder in Yosemite I thought they were crazy. It was a strange concept- to drive all that way just to boulder,” said Frye. Ironworks hardmen, Paul Barraza and Tim Medina finally convinced Frye to explore the smaller stones. From the next 7 years, until Frye was 51, he bouldered constantly and rediscovered his love for climbing. Frye made an ascent of Thriller (V10) and the next year sent Midnight Lightning (V8) at the ages of 44 and 45 respectively. “I guess I just waited for the pad technology,” he said.

Frye climbing at Grizzly Peak in Berkeley

Frye has supported his endeavors through work in the climbing industry. He briefly experienced the “luxurious life” of a sponsored athlete but he found stability in the climbing gym industry. He has worked for Touchstone for over a decade as the retail assistant/shipping and receiving clerk. Frye works the morning shifts at the Touchstone retail warehouse at the Ironworks gym. “Working with Patti (Phillips the retail manager) and the Melvins (the Touchstone Founders) is a great job,” Frye said. Frye, who has worked with Touchstone for 10 years, credited the Melvins with helping a number of climbers and the climbing community on a grand scale. “There are not enough good things you can say about the Melvins,” Frye said. The Touchstone stock boy ships guidebooks, harnesses, a lot of chalk, and a ton of climbing shoes to the five different Touchstone gyms. Occasionally, Frye escapes the retail warehouse at Ironworks to mentor the older crew of climbers at the gym. “I teach them to flag and climb more dynamically- so it’s not like they’re climbing on the Eiger on frozen ice.”

Frye’s newest obsession is ping pong or more accurately known as table tennis. Though he has played for his whole life, he has focused on the sport in the past few years. Frye plays 5 to 6 days a week, runs topspin, underspin, and curve drills every other day, pays for a Chinese coach, has a mentor, and teaches a youth team. Frye also practices and trains with the kids. When they do fitness runs, he ignores his bum knee and follows them around on his scooter. “I’m having so much fun with it, trying to realize the skill set of an Olympic event,” Frye said.

These days, the little he climbs is in the gym, where he cross trains for ping pong. “It’s a funny thing, “Frye said. “After climbing for 30 years and looking back at it all, there’s one thing I wish I had done- climb more.”

Squamish Days

2010-08-19T20:40:00.001-07:00

If they knew how many black berries I would be stealing I doubt that they would have let me into their country. Canadians are a friendly bunch, especially those in Squamish, B.C. but no one likes to have all their fruit stolen. Kim and I kept a mindul eye out for the mountie filled two large tupperware containers with the fruit from behind the downtown grocery store. It was pleasant work- pick one, eat one, pick one, eat one, eat one, pick one, eat one, pick one, and repeat. Somehow, my container seemed to fill much slower than Kim's.

Thomasina spends most of her free time sewing these days. She sewed a black bag with a picture of Snoopy on it and the phrase "I'm kind of a big deal." I carry all of my bouldering supplies in it when we have climbed in the forest. That night, Tim, Kim, Dirty Bird, and I, went over to where Thomasina and Cedar are staying, she sewed a new patch on my ripped pants for me, while I baked a black berry pie.

Over pie and ice cream, I picked a cowboy patch for my pants to cover the enormous tear, that I got from bouldering at Way Lake. Climbing near Mammoth over two months ago, had been the last time that I wrestled little pebbles, and when I got to Squamish, I felt rather weak. I would like to say that the weakness left. I would also like to say that I am a billionaire. Unfortunately, I can say both but saying them does not make them come true. My cowboy patch made me feel tough though and I managed to make a decent attack on the native rocks.

The arete bulges high above the granite on the Squaw. Just to the right, is the notorious ffwidth Pipeline- a testpiece that I had taken an enormous lob off of my first summer in Squamish. A series of piches, sidepulls, and balancey climbing goes through a V4 boulder problem and into a difficult mantle towards the summit. Dave Morales belayed me when I dogged the pitch, then again when I almost sent the pitch on toprope. We rappeled from the top of the Squaw, leaving the Frayed Ends of Sanity (5.12c) for another trip. After two apple fritters, a blue berry muffin, and enough water to drown an elephant, we started up Freeway (5.11c). The climb went well, though I fell on toprope twice. I blame a lack of skin and feeling tired for my falls. Dave hiked the route and we managed to top out just as it was getting dark. We ran down the trail. The fifteen pitches of climbing that day, tired me a little (this is me spraying about how much of a hardman I am). The cowboy patch inspired me to kick myself with some spurs and get down in time for dinner.

Kim and I ate tortellini with bad pasta sauce for dinner. The weak American dollar, and the offensive amount of money I had to spend getting a pass port just before the trip(the pass port agency suspected me of being a berry thief), kept me on a budget. I am always on a budget though this one was titled Foreign Expenditures and the debits were written neatly in the checkbook of my mind. We had been eating better meals. The night before, Mary-Kate, Kim and I ate half off pizzas at the Howe Sound Brewery. They were moderately good for half off pizzas. The price was half off- which was good because if the sauce or cheese had been half off I would have demanded a refund. When we ordered, I wondered if they would fuck up my order. A few nights prior, we had eaten with Will Wolcott and Courtney Miyamato for their last evening in town. The brewery put mayonaisse on my chicken sandwhich.

"He hates mayonaise," Kim stared at Will's order of poutinne- french fries soaked in gravy and cheese curd. "It reminds him too much of semen. This morning at the bakery, he made the most disgusted face I'd ever seen. He never show his emotion but he looked absolutely devastated."

Will shared his poutinne while we waited for my sandwhich. The first one came with mayo, despite telling the waitress, "I'm allergic to mayo. Please don't put in on or my throat may swell shut." The staff at the brewery probably wanted to poison me. The second sandwhich came without the disgusting white goo and I made it through the meal without my throat swelling shut. This was one of my fears when going to the brewery for pizza with Mary-Kate. The pizza turned out ok though. They kept both halves of the cheese and the sauce on the dough and they didn't put any mayo on it.

Kim has had an impressive trip. She followed me up the Grand Wall 5.11 A0, pulling off her first wall ascent ever. She led her first trad route on a multi-pitch climb, she's doubled the number of trad leas she's made, and she had her best bouldering day ever here. Lately, her hips started bothering her. She fell off of Heartbreak Hotel and badly bruised/hit her hip bone. Pretty proud despite her injury!

Interview with Myself

2010-07-26T21:15:00.000-07:00

I recently interviewed myself for the Touchstone Climbing Gym blog that I write. Check it out:

Touchstone Blogger and Bay area rock climber, James Lucas has been climbing for more than a decade. Beginning his climbing career as a self proclaimed "punter", James quickly progressed to a dirtbag rock jock when he moved from New England to Yosemite Valley. He's constantly on the road rock climbing and recently made an ascent of his first big wall free climb- the Westie Face of the Leaning Tower (5.13 A0). Oakland Manager Lyn Verinsky made a poignant observation, stating, "James would have sent his route months earlier if he had taken my advice about apple fritters being the best pre-send food. Instead he had to use hard work and tenacity." He took a moment from his "hard work" shamelessly self promoting and being a rock climbing "Spray lord" to talk to the Touchstone Blog.

What was your recent ascent of the Wesite Face, the free variation to Yosemite Valley's Leaning West Face of the Leaning Tower like?

Well, first of all- I'd like to say that I'm kind of a big deal. If you don't know who I am then you should. I recently wrote one of the Dirtbag Diaries about being Yosemite's Next Top Idol. I'm pretty much the greatest thing to ever happen to climbing. But enough about me let's talk about you. What do you think about me?

Uhh...I think you avoided the question. How did you prepare for the route?

I am not naturally gifted in the least. My tenacity makes up for my lack of talent. I spent a couple months bouldering in Bishop, sport climbed in Sonora, and then tried the route a bunch. When I couldn't send, I took a short break, hung out in Berkeley and tried really really hard to redpoint the green 12c at Ironworks. One of the banes of my existence is my inability to climb well in the gym. I went back to Toulmne Meadows, did some hard sport climbing, then headed to the Leaning Tower. The crux for me was having enough power endurance on the 5.13 pitch. The lead cave at Ironworks really helped. I'm hoping to free El Capitan soon.

How did you get your Valley nicknames?

I have two. The first one, "Peaches" was given to me by my friend Brian "Coiler" Kay. It's after James and the Giant Peach. The second one, "Big Fall James", was due to taking a 100 foot fall in Joshua Tree while free soloing on Intersection Rock. I fall a lot. I prefer "Peaches"- makes for better pies.

Tuna Town whipper from James Lucas on Vimeo.

You spend most of your time traveling and rock climbing. Do you have some sort of dream career along those lines?

Absolutely! I want to be on the cover of Martha Stewart's Home Living. I spend a lot of time baking pies. I just made a cherry pie for the staff over at Ironworks and I'm planning on making a pie for Lyn Verinsky, the manager at Oakland. On rest days, I really really like making pie. Either the Martha Stewart thing or I would be really into winning the lottery. Then I could buy a really nice RV and park it below some rocks for a little bit and move it when I wanted. It'd be way more baller than my station wagon.

Check out more of James' writing, published and unpublished work, on his blog- Life of A Walking Monkey

Westie Face

2010-07-19T12:10:00.000-07:00

May 2010- A long streak of white crap runs from above the door frame down towards the handle. I used the sleeve of my dirty hoodie to open the car door, letting out a short string of obscenities. Some may say it was Karma- I'd been parked at the fifteen minute registration parking for the Yosemite Lodge for the better part of an hour. I would say it was shit. Long white shit on my car. Yosemite was just a ditch and I was over it.

I had already given up. I lowered myself out to jumar the rope on the first overhanging pitch. I didn't really think I would send the West Face of the Leaning Tower. The free climbing begins at a small stance 600 feet off the ground at a small stance and above a 200 foot bolt ladder. I had tried the crux pitch four times a few days prior and wanted to go on this mission with Alex to retrieve my fixed line. I didn't want the pressure of sending. I would try once more since I was up here.

My feet pasted against the wall and I ratcheted up to a small pin scar. A thousand feet swam below me. I moved up the vertical granite wall. The 12b warm up felt nothing like a warm up. Soon, the outside edge of my foot pressed onto a small foothold, I climbed the crux above a copperhead. I climbed smoothly to the belay and set up the top rope for Alex.

The West Face of the Leaning Tower

I racked up, and fired up the pumpy beginning. I hung the draw at the crux, grabbed the bad pinch, crimped the hold, and dead pointed- throwing my body to hit a flat edge. I stuck it. I made a few more moves. Two feet away from me was the no-hands rest. I hung off my right hand unable to move any farther. I had completed the hardest move on the route. Then I fell. Total disappointment. Alex finished the pitch to Awhanee, then coercing me to follow him up the much more difficult Wet Lycra Nightmare, Todd Skinner’s 5.13d free variation to Wet Denim Daydream. Alex assured me this was the type of thing that built character and would make me a better climber. I didn’t believe him.

That night, I stopped by the lodge to sedate myself with a philly cheese steak and onion rings. I felt fat and disgusting as I sopped up the last bit of Sysco cheese with a greasy onion ring. When I came out, there was the bird shit on my car. I was over the valley. The last straw. I wanted to puke. I wanted to leave. I wanted to puke then leave. Yosemite was just a big cavern. Who wanted to be in that ditch?

May 2009- Stanley climbed behind a white curtain. He clipped a fixed copperhead, a swaged piece of bubble gum attached to the rock, and threw his heel on the rock as he traverse out. The white sheet of snow fell ten feet away from the rock, leaving Stanley dry. Snows falls all around the Leaning Tower but it’s steep nature kept the rock dry, and allowed us to keep climbing. The site is inspiring.
A week later, the snow dried, and Stanley screamed. “Why can’t I do this?” He had just fallen off the crux move on the second pitch of the Leaning Tower. I waited until he calmed down. The effort of our previous weeks of work pressed him. It’s just a pitch. It’s just a rock climb. It’s just another huge formation in the Valley. That’s what we should believe, but it easily becomes more- it becomes a part of our fragile egos as men. The need to succeed, to have the swagger that comes with success, is part of the climb.

A year later, that would be me. I related to Stanley’s frustration, to put so much effort, to fall in the middle of a wall, to know something was possible for you but still fail. I wanted to slam my head against the wall. I felt worn down by the falling, the toiling on the wall, and the pressing desire to finish the project.

May- 2009 I am dogging the pitches in a two day ascent with John Schmid. My foot pastes on the wall. I stare at the anchors, smear my foot, and start to move. Then I’m falling. The tiny brass nut fifteen feet below rips out of the wall. It swings down the rope as my fall is arrested by a cluster of small cams. Mikey had warned me not fall on the top of the 12a R pitch. I was going for it and flew forty-five feet across the wall. This experience is unrivaled excitement. I hate the failure but it solidifies my desire to succeed. I want to return.

Summer 2001- My stomache cramps into a tight ball. I heave twice, then puke a thin fluid. I wipe my mouth and continue climbing. I was not sure if Thane had put his head through the neck of his shirt or if he’d stuck his moppy head through one of the other enormous holes in the thin cotton. From behind the counter of the Yosemite climbing shop, I talked a mean game. Wall climbing? No problem. I grabbed a cam off the wall and pulled the trigger. Easy stuff.

My first wall route- just before I started puking.

A few days later, a party of three rappeled past us, bailing off the West Face of the Leaning Tower. They tell us there is a ton of water at the ledge. Thane decides we should dump our water so we don’t have to haul it to the midway ledge. When we arrive, we realize the party had vastly overestimated the amount of water. I lead the next two pitches. It is hot. I am dehydrated. I puke leading the boulder ladder pitch. Thane yells at me for not clipping enough bolts on the ladder or maybe clippin too many. We spend the night on Awhanee This is my first real wall route. I pour a little water into my mouth and swallow too fast. I puke again.. “Stop throwing up, you’re wasting water,” Thane says. In the morning, we summit. I never climb with Thane again. Wall climbing is suffering. I need to find something better. Wall climbing is not where it’s at.

May 2008- Mikey and I let our feet hang a thousand feet off the ground. We kick our heels off the ledge a pitch from the summit of Leaning Tower. Mikey just dispatched the strenuous and steep roof pitch and wanted to rest before tackling the final 5.12. We talk about nothing in particular. We just kick our heels. This is where it's at.

Fall 2002- I am a fat 21 year old working for the North Face store in San Francisco. I cooerce Rob Miller into taking me on one of his free climbing adventures. I just want to be in the Valley, to see what big wall free climbing is like.

We hike up the Gunsight gully, the steep trail between Lower and Middle Cathedral, heading towards the top of Bridalveil falls, and the summit of Leaning Twer. A hundred feet away from the top of the waterfall, we cross the raging river. The rock is slick. The water is running fast. Horrified, I step into the cold and try not to think about falling in, heading down the falls, and drowning- being pummeled into the talus below and sprayed with 10,000 psi of Sierra run-off. This is one of the scariest moments in my life.

Rob traverses out the last pitch to the belay, where I sit and marvel at the thought of him free climbing so high off the ground. Watching him climb breaks a mental barrier for me. Big wall free climbing can be done. The rappelling into the top, the river crossing, these things are part of the process- part of the colossal amount of work involved in big wall free climbing. The granite softens under Rob’s touch, allowing him to move smoothily along the golden rock of the tower. Someday I tell myself. Someday that will be me.

Jumaring the first 200 foot bolt ladder

June 2010. Lucho told me how nervous he was before he sent the Teflon Corner- the crux pitch to freeing El Capitan. He offered solid advice about breathing, relaxing, and performing. We arrived in the parking lot at 6 am. No one is on the route. We enjoy the solitude of the wall, simul-climbing up the bolt ladder, and then free climbing the route from the stance. I fell on the second pitch, and lower back to the belay to try again. I was nervous. A few minutes later, after hanging with Lucho, I am poised at the crux, this time I send. I continue up the route, climbing without falling again. I stop for a moment on the summit. I want to revel, to rest on my laurels. To recall the experiences, the beauty of the climbing and the spot, the toiling and the friendship, all of it. Then I look at El Cap. My feelings of success and nostalgia are quickly washed away by my desire for more.

El Cap

Below are a couple notes from Leo Houlding who made the first free ascent of the Westie Face.

The West Face of the Leaning Tower
by Leo Houlding

The West face of the Leaning Tower was first climbed by Warren Harding, Glen Denny and Al Macdonald in 1961.

In characteristic style he drilled over 50 bolts through the initial ridiculously steep, “impossible” wall to where an obvious discontinuous line of grooves leads to another 30 bolt ladder, through a large roof to the top.

Leo on the 5.12b pitch off Guano Ledge

Royal Robbins made the second ascent and first ever solo ascent of a big wall dubbing the Tower “ The most overhanging face in North America”. Comparable in angle to Kilnsey North buttress but a thousand feet high and flanked by the mighty Bridalveil Falls the tower is an incredible feature.

The route starts three hundred feet up at the end of a narrow ledge traverse. Halfway up is the Ahwahnee ledge, a luxurious 4/5 person en-suit bivi equipped with in-situ fixed lines (named after the five star hotel in the valley).
Harding’s rusty, old bolts where replaced in 1997 by the American safe climbing association, good work boys. This, combined with it’s tactical ease and comparatively short length make the West Face one of the most popular beginner walls in the valley although the extreme initial exposure overwhelms many would be ascensionists.

The usual style is a two or three day ascent with a night at the base and a night on Ahwahnee.

I first climbed the route in a five and a half hour push with Jason Pickles and Ammon Mcneely in October 2000.

The initial bolt ladder would clearly never go (so prove me wrong!) but the rest of the route appeared to be climbable, including a variation avoiding the upper bolt ladder. It looked outstanding, each pitch completely different to the last but at a fairly consistent standard and all incredibly steep.

From the top of the first pitch bolt ladder, a long, steep, shallow groove offered technical pumpy climbing for a hundred and fifty feet to a nasty boulder problem finish on to the Ahwahnee.

Then a unique ramp feature splits the bulging blank face out right to the start of the next bolt ladder. A vegetated seam runs parallel to the bolt ladder and joins it at its end where crack systems continue.

Perhaps Harding drilled past this obvious line to avoid the large concerningly hollow blocks it is necessary to negotiate on the low traverse to the vegetated seam? From the artificial belay (no hands-off rest) at the top of the bolt ladder a fun pitch teasingly graded 5.10+ on the aid topo goes at around 5.11+!

The deceptive roof comes next. A slab below disguises the scale of the ceiling but when one pulls the crux into the back of the cave its size is blatant. Beyond it’s distant lip yet more juggy steepness terminates on a comfortable recovery ledge, a wild pitch.

A final typically overhung corner followed by a traverse top out makes this yet pitch another exciting jummar for the third man!

The traverse top out marks the end of the climbing but is not the true ‘top out’. From the lovely ‘chill out’ finish ledge a scramble above the abyss heads to the knife-edge ridge summit of the tower. Huge slabs of rock overhang the face, guarding the summit except for one small gap. Upon mantling through this window one is confronted with a breath taking view of El Cap in it’s entirety. The spell binding hanging valley above Bridalveil falls and the cluster of domes that is the Cathedrals makes this perhaps the most spectacular top out in the world.

At the beginning of May 2001 Jason and I found ourselves back on the Leaning Tower with a friend Javier Sepulveda. He is a competent climber but not an experienced wall rat. Jas and I have spent a while hanging around on ledges in high places and, as with anything, one can become complacent. Jav’s intermittent sighs of contentment or yells of

“This is BRILLIANT” reminded us of the majesty of our playground. His terrified cries as he repeatedly ‘took the ride’ on free hanging jummars caused Jas and I endless amusement.

We were in no rush so we set up a comfortable Camp on the Ahwahnee from which to prepare the route for a one day free ascent. I spent an afternoon working the pitch leading to the ledge on abseil, carefully chalking the holds and deciphering the sequences. That evening, to my great annoyance, I fell off the last move of the ramp pitch on my onsight attempt.

The next day Jas aided the upper bolt ladder and linked it into the next pitch. I spent a while on top rope cleaning the seam parallel to the bolt ladder and checking out the gear. The climbing was hard E5 but two ropes would be necessary for protection. At 59.5m a truly long pitch.

To spice things up a bit we got Jav to lead the roof pitch. Not being an aid climber, it took him ages. As his frustration grew our entertainment improved. Darkness was fast engulfing and with one pitch to go along with the harrowing descent there was no time to work the final pitches. We stepped up the pace a little. Jav seemed quite startled by the gear change. We topped out convinced we could free it in a day.

Jav had to leave for work so it was just Jas and I who returned. We jugged to the Ahwahnee and spent the rest of the day wiring the pitch below and the ramp above. Next morning after providing our guests with fresh coffee and breakfast we went up to prepare the next pitch. With the intention of returning for lunch we hauled up the line fixed down from the ledge and fixed it to the top of the ramp, leaving the camp in a ‘lived in state’ complete with unpacked sleeping bags and our trainers.
In no time at all we were below the roof with all the climbing to that point thoroughly dialled. It seamed pointless to descend so early so we continued to the top. The roof went at E6 and the final pitch a stern E5.

Topping out again we knew the descent was going to be tough. To save our precious climbing boots we descended the wall, hiked to the road (a considerable walk) and hitched back to camp 4… barefoot!
Now we were ready for the push.

On Wednesday 16th May we set off from camp 4. I led every pitch with no falls. Jas followed everything with a couple of rests.

Once again we topped out. This time the elusive Peregrines that we had heard calling but had not seen swooped by to congratulate us.

Intent on returning for photographs we left our gear on the ledge and our fixed ropes in place.

A week slipped by on the valley floor with all our sleeping and cooking gear conveniently stashed halfway up the tower.

Eventually we returned with Corey Rich to make some glamour shots. In the burnt out light of the midday we retired to Ahwahnee to kill sometime before the enchanting light of evening.

Stove and cigarettes dying to be ignited we despaired at our stupidity. Little irritates me more than having no light (except perhaps no skins). We killed the time trying to create fire using various Boy Scout methods. I was absolutely convinced that Corey’s big lens was going to work but alas success was not ours.

By the final red rays of the setting sun I began to pull the ropes on the last abseil and so end our affair with the Leaning Tower. Or so I thought, the ropes jammed. Unwilling to jummar off a kink we ditched the rope and halved our descent loads intent on returning the next day.

Jas’s trip was almost over so we put off rescuing the gear in favour of bagging some more classics. Finally the day of Jason’s bus we went up to get the gear.

Originally a 'throw away' comment the idea we might be able to aid climb the route in under two hours grew on me. Jas was keen so instead of simply freeing the stuck rope from the top of the first pitch we decided to do the whole route.

One hour fifty nine minutes latter we enjoyed the stunning top out once again. Hurriedly we descended and hitched back to camp in time for Jas to pack and catch his bus at Four O’clock.

The next day was my second to last in Yosemite. Hanging in the parking lot, the Pickles gone, the forecast said tomorrow would be 97 degrees and humid. I was not going to get to climb the Captain this trip, was I?

Singer had talked of an ascent of the Nose leaving the parking lot at noon, without taking head torches.

I raised this point, it was 10.15. His eyes sparkled and he put on a pink, sleeveless Lycra top. I could tell he was excited. We began guzzling Red Bull. We started climbing at 12.40.

On the third pitch (of 33) I pulled up all the rope (over 100 feet) fixed it to the belay and set off soloing up a slight ramp. Confronted by a difficult move 10’ higher I stuffed in a piece and pulled on it to reach up.
PING! It rang.

I let out the kind of cry one is only capable of making when one is genuinely convinced that one has really blown it. My visions of a 100’ factor 2 fall were narrowly avoided by my feline falling instinct. Clawing down the slab I managed to grind down the ramp and stick the four inch wide belay ledge. Hair raising. In our fifth hour we passed a party who were on their fifth day!

Using the speed techniques of short fixing, back cleaning and simo-climbing we topped out at 7.42 and made it down just before dark. A brilliant day to end a brilliant Spring in the Valley.

The Westie Face (W. Face of the Leaning Tower)
E7 A0, 6c, 6b, 6b, 6c, 6b - 800 feet
V – A0, 5.13b, 12b, 12c, 12d, 13a, 12c
FA: Warren Harding, Glen Denny, Al Macdonald 1961
FFA: Leo Houlding, Jason Pickles 16th May 2001
Speed record: 1.59 Leo Houlding, Jason Pickles 21st May 2001

THE WESTIE FACE

The first free ascent of the West face of the Leaning tower by Leo Houlding and Jason Pickles

On Wednesday 16th May 2001 Jason Pickles and I made the first free ascent of the West Face of the Leaning tower. First climbed by Warren Harding in 1953 with a heavy use of bolts, Royal Robbins called the Tower "the steepest wall in North America".
Comparable in angle to Kilnsey North Buttress but a thousand feet high … you get the picture!

Harding’s rusty bolts were replaced by the American safe climbing association in 1997, good work boys.

The initial insanely steep bolt ladder remains an aid pitch and will never go free (so prove me wrong). The free climbing begins where the bolt ladder ends at a small ledge in a shallow, steep groove. The crux pitch a 160 foot, 5.13b (E7 6c) leads one on to the Ahwahnee ledge. A five star perch named after the exclusive Hotel in the Valley.

An unusual hanging ramp pitch then a full sixty metre stamina fest, both around 5.12c bring you to the big roof. It’s size is deceptive but whenyou pull into the back of it it’s scale is clear. About twenty feet of horizontal laybacking then another twenty feet of bridging up a forty five degree overhanging groove. Every hold a jug, the it’s a wild pitch. Extremly exposed E6 6c(5.13a).

A final typically steep corner completes the outstanding, sustained route. The increadible view of El Cap from obtained the summit makes the final mantle perhaps the most spectacular topout in the world.

Achievable in a day and of a semi-sport nature this route is set to become a classic of its grade.

Several days later we made the fastest aid ascent of the same route whilst retrieving a jammed rope. 1 hour 59 minutes sheds a considerable 1.20 off the previous speed record. The same afternoon Jason caught his bus out of the Valley.
The next afternoon Jason Singer and I climbed the Nose of El Capitan. Leaving the café at 12 noon, without head torches we began climbing at 12.40. On the third pitch I narrowly avoided a monster fall by catching a tiny ledge 10 feet into the 120 foot screamer! Not the best way to start a speed ascent. In our fifth hour we passed a party who was on their fifth day. Topping out at 7.42 we made it down just before dark.

Westie Face Beta
The majority of this route stays dry in a snowstorm. All of the free moves to the beginning of the free climbing have gone free but the pitch itself has not gone yet.

Lynn Hill and Katie Brown on their free ascent

Westie Face Beta

The first 200 are a bolt ladder than comes the free climbing

1st pitch rack- 5.12b- pitons were removed by Dean Potter, making this pitch easier than initially thought.
#1 Camalot
Stopper
Yellow Alien in undercling
Bolt
Stopper in finger lock
Copper head
Small stopper or green alien
Fixed heads- anchor

2nd pitch 5.12d/5.13a
Head
Green alien
Stopper
Orange alien
Bolts x 7 or 8 there are two possible finishes to this pitch. A scrunchy V4 boulder problem can be made following the bolt ladder or the third bolt on the belay can be clipped and then a few down climbing moves to a 5.11a variations to the far left- this will take you to Awhanee ledge, where the boulder problem takes you to Guano ledge

3rd pitch 5.12b
Bolt with runner
Green alien with runner place in arching crac kdown climb to an edge far out left/jump or span.
.5 camalot with runner make delicate moves straight up face to traverse ramp
Yellow alien
Draws x 4 or 5
.75 camalot
Draw

4th pitch 5.12a R
Bolts x 6
Traverse left below the third bolt. Thin gear, pin, fixed tag line….many ascents either fix their tag line and clip that or pre=place a stopper. I’ve fallen going to the anchor- it is a long albeit clean fall.

5th pitch 5.11d
Single set to two camalots, doubles to .5, lots of draws, maybe stoppers. After this pitch climb a short pitch to the base of the roof, climbing across the keystoned blocks.

6th- 11b pitch
Thin gear/ stoppers to bolts, yellow alien
this pitch can be linked into the roof or a belay can be made at two bolts, below the boulder problem that goes into the rood. This belay reduces rope drag

7th pitch 5.12c
10 draws red camalot optional

8th pitch- 5.12a
Gold camalot, draws, small cams, .75 camalot.

The last pitch is 30m and can be rappelled. The roof pitch needs either the tag line to be fixed to the bottom anchor or directionals to be placed on rappel, then the second pulled into the anchor. The next pitch is straight down one or two pieces should be used as a directional. The next rappel from chains takes you to guano ledge. A tension traverse needs to be done to swing to the belay. The next rappel is 60 m to the top of the bolt ladder. The bolt ladder can be rappelled- one person must place around 10 quickdraws, clipping the bolts to stay into the wall.

Dirtbag Diaries: Yosemite's Next Top Idol

2010-06-17T17:54:00.000-07:00

Yosemite’s Next Top Idol- is on The Dirtbag Diaries- Listen to the recorded version.

Every year, hundreds enter the contest to become Yosemite’s Next Top Idol. Only a few earn the honor. Hopeful climbers gather around the cafeteria table in the Yosemite Lodge during the spring season, and again in the fall, to talk about their glorious achievements, to make outlandish exaggerations, and to flex. It’s a seasonal ritual. To move beyond just being another face at the table, to be Yosemite’s Next Top Idol-one of the great Valley climbers, one has to be a true character.

I wanted flashing lights. I wanted to live forever. I wanted real fame. I wanted a Facebook fan club page. The reality though was that I was a just a humble dirtbag rock climber. I fought to be Yosemite’s Next Top Idol. Status as an A-list celebrity, a Yosemite Idol, was way better than being a D list dirtbag.

Everyone moved seats when the heavy hitters came to the Yosemite Lodge cafeteria table. Mouths dropped when Surfer Bob pointed at his wide back and proclaim, “You don’t get a back like that by towing into the little waves. I surf the monsters.” Emaciated trad climbers watched Platinum Rob nibble certified organic high protein whey supplements. They marveled at his dedication. Platinum once brought a scale with him while free climbing El Cap to weigh out perfect proportions of food. He worked out constantly and was also known as “The Dictionary”; he had definition. Magoo, the mouth of this vicious social climbing ladder, wore horn rimmed glasses with coke bottle for lenses. He had hustled his way into a full time career as a sponsored rock climber, and voiced the path to being a Yosemite Idol. He said that to gain true recognition you needed an incredible story- escape captivity from Krygakistani rebels, climb enormous Arctic walls in single pushes, or huck laps on down canyon testpieces then swim back up to Camp 4- feet first. My climbing ability was mediocre at best. I just wasn’t cut out of granite like those guys. For years I’d had a soft spot for donuts. Now, I had a lot of soft spots because of donuts. Still, I wanted to join the elite.

I wanted to train like Surfer Bob. I wanted to Platinumize my body into an extreme fitness machine like Rob. I wanted to be a fully sponsored rock jock like Magoo. I was desperate for the glory that these men had achieved. I wanted to be Yosemite’s Next Top Idol. I wanted it bad so I transitioned from my life as a college student and into one of a dirtbag climber.
My first step was to move into a tent in the woods behind University of Califirnia Santa Cruz campus. I had to toughen up mentally so I did.

I hate the rain. I don’t melt in it- I’m not made of sugar but the whole cold and wet thing is not for me. The first season living in my tent, it rained for forty days. The Santa Cruz redwoods became lush and red, the banana slugs emerged from the forest in full force, and I -- I went crazy. I thought about how the flooding water would float my little tent out into the Pacific. I wondered how long it would take me to sail to Australia, or Europe, or somewhere warm with good rock. I festered through the rain, contemplating if suffering through storms was really part of being a rock climber.

One day I found a banana slug on my pillow. I brushed it off to living outdoors in the Monterey Bay. A few mornings later, I woke to the tickle of a tick on my testicles. Alliteration aside, it was not a pleasant sensation. I swore that if I found another critter in my “home” I would go savage. The next morning, I found a worm in my sleeping bag. I showed him no mercy; I buried the bastard alive.

The grim living conditions, the nightly wet bivies, they forced me to escape-to go climbing on the weekends, and ditch school for short trips during the week. I had little to do but climb. I didn’t go to college with high academic dreams. I majored in Economics and Business Management with the intention of getting a job where all I had to do was staple things. My motto was “C’s” get degrees. I dreamed of meeting a nice, young, rich girl and then marrying her mom. I could be a “sponsored athlete,” a rock climber supported by someone’s mom. But my constant trips to Yosemite kept the ladies away. I saw few. Plus, if I mentioned that I lived in a tent in the woods behind campus, they would think I was either an Ewok or Ted Kazynski. This was the kind of thing a true Yosemite Idol needed though- a monastic lifestyle, where there would be no fear of women ever distracting me in my goal from being Yosemite’s Next Top Idol.

Every weekend I was in Yosemite, or at the sport crag, or in the boulders. I commuted to the climbing with Platinum Rob, who gave me training goals, and reminded me to stay thin. At the top of Tuoulumne Meadow’s Private Property cliff, after a hard day of sport climbing, I watched Rob pour a handful of macadamia nuts into his hands. He counted them, plucked three out, and put them back into the bag.

“How many macadamias do you eat Rob?” I asked, stuffing Cheetos into my mouth.

“Well, James,” Rob chewed slowly, relishing his nuts. “I eat 10. But you, since you’re a little- you know” He ballooned his cheeks. “You’d only want to eat seven.”

The Yosemite Idol contestants were all so thin they’d disappear if they turned sideways. I had become mentally tough in my woodland hovel, but if I was to be a contender, I’d need to go on a strict diet. Over the years I had contracted Dunlop disease- my stomach dun lop over my belt. Rob agreed to train me at his Santa Cruz gym. I biked down from my tent on Tuesday and Thursday mornings before school. After class, I hit the climbing gym, and then on the weekends I headed back out to the crag. The wafer thin Supermodel Kate Moss gave me a mantra. Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels. My muffin top, the spare tire around my stomach, slowly started to fade. I was lean and I was mean. When I showed up at the Cafeteria table, all skinny and fit with pine needles from the Santa Cruz redwoods sticking out of my hair, I looked like the best of the contestants. I had the mental toughness, and the lean physique. But I lacked talent on the rock. I needed to step up my game.

The climbing came along slowly. I have never been adept at moving my body. My only redemption is that my tenacity makes up for my lack of talent. I shook up the most mediocre of routes. A half inch above my last placement, I would be wrought with jazz hands and Elvis leg at the same time. I was an autumn leaf about to blow off the rock. I went to the Cookie Cliff, where Surfer Bob trained. He lapped the same cracks a million times, fueling his body off a tablespoon of olive oil. He trained for the ultimate training day. I tried to do the same, running countless laps up routes that I had dialed. “It’s just like paddling into Jaws,” he said while he cruised his 139th lap up the Red Zinger, a difficult 5.11+ crack. “You got to start off strong and ride into the wave. Let the motion take you there.” I tried to follow his advice instead I thrashed. I’d never been surfing in Hawaii break and, frankly, the water scared me. I had no idea what he was talking about.

In the boulders behind Camp 4 Magoo, showed me his circuit- a series of heinous offwidths and horrendous grovel problems he had wired over the years. Every “easy” problem felt impossible. He sandbagged me at every opportunity. Magoo explained his secret to success, “You don’t really have to climb anything. Just try real hard, talk a mean game, and shamelessly self promote.” He sniffled and shoved his glasses up his face alot, “That’ll work way better than climbing harder,” he added in a conspiratorial manner. I followed his advice. When I established a first ascent, I called it the Muir Trail, telling people that I hiked it. I related half truths- I claimed to have climbed up to 5.14 on El Capitan. Which was true- I had climbed up to it and then I aided through it. I worked my mouth like Magoo suggested.

Soon, I had the big talk down. Everyone in Yosemite knew that I was kind of a big deal.
I kept working on Magoo’s impossible boulder problem circuit. But I kept flailing. I had leaned up on Platinum Rob’s diet but I was still a Man of Girth. I trained like Surfer Bob but then I would fail on anything off the circuit. That was how they earned their Yosemite titles but none of it would work for me. Each of them had sandbagged me into believing I could do it. I couldn’t keep up. I could only try and fail. So that’s what I did. I tried and I failed. I made small craters from wildly falling off the center stage routes in Joshua Tree, in Yosemite, anywhere there was a crowd. I was covered in cuts, and bruises from falling all the time. Soon I earned a moniker. Big Fall James. Long scars ran across my elbow, ankle, and back. I became a highly recognizable walking disaster. When I hobbled through Camp 4 with huge rope burns across my arms, watermelon sized ankles, and enormous bruise- people knew who I was. Big Fall James. The man who could survive the most enormous whippers around.

A few mornings ago, I sat at the table of the Yosemite Lodge. I’d been living the dirtbag climbing lifestyle for four years. I stayed skinny even in the winter months. I climbed without looking like a jackhammer on the rock. I talked an enormous game. I was as close to being Yosemite’s Next Top Idol as ever. A kid, fresh out of his mom’s house, in a collared shirt buttoned to the neck, sat next to me. He glanced at me, then cast his eyes down, and mumbled, “Big Fall James, How do you become a Yosemite Idol?” I smiled. I had fought for years for this moment- this opportunity to be acknowledged as one of the great Yosemite Climbers. My mind raced through a library of sage advice. I had sat in the same spot, listening to Surfer Bob, Platinum Rob, and Magoo. I thought about what they had told me. I looked at the kid. I thought showing him Surfer Bob’s ultimate training day schedule, about telling him Platinum’s dieting advice, or describing how he needed Magoo’s confidence. I prepared to tell him how he should follow my lead and become a walking disaster. Then I paused. He would need a lot of help. I patted him on the hand, put my arm around his shoulder, and totally sandbagged him.

Sonora Notes

2010-06-11T11:30:00.000-07:00

For the past month and a half I worked in Sonora. I stayed in Chinese Camp sleeping on the futon of Coiler’s porch. There were a few climbers that passed through but I augured into the little farm. When bivy time came, I always got the futon. I was the head porch monkey. The status was nice to have. I needed as much beauty sleep as I could get to go to work.
The nearby crag is steep and chossy and blocky. It attracts a large number of elite sport climbers (read douche bags). I was no exception. I shouted beta across the crag, used an offensive number of kneebars, and sprayed when I belayed my first 8c (5.14b). I also failed to send any new climbs. This last bit is rather depressing for me. I went to the crag feeling stronger than I had in years past and with slightly less of my normal paunch. But strong and light doesn’t get you redpoints. This is me in desperation.

I tried everything. I read in a recent study that good looking quarterbacks perform 37% better than their less attractive peers. I translated that to look good climb good. I manicured my stubble to perfect Yosemite hardman length, I wore my favorite shorts to the crag, I swam in Axe body spray Chocolate temptation. While the ladies found me irrestible, my 8a proj resisted my advances. This is me getting rock blocked.

Finally, the crag got too hot. Thank god. Fuck that place. There were a few redeeming things about climbing there. One was the sports action. I watched a gym climbing stud whip with two armfuls of slack while clipping the anchor. He flew 30+ feet and yanked his tiny belayer up into the first bolt. Whoopsie daisy!

One night in Chinese Camp, a few sport climbers and I danced on the pole in Coiler’s shop. While there, I had taken it upon myself to learn the rudimentary pole dancing moves. I could flip upside down. I could slide seductively down the pole. I could spin and gyrate my hips. I deserve a spot in Brotastic’s Male revue. I showed the sport climbers the basics and everyone got into it, even Dan Urban. Natasha Barnes vigorously ground up against the pole. Her enthusiasm unlocked a few new moves. Kim Groebner took the pole dancing to an all time extreme, going upside down then taking her hands off. Then she implemented one of Natasha’s moves. She performed a split on the pole, and then spun approximately 270 degrees. We all wished we had singles.

A week or two ago, while fighting in a Muay Thai match in Santa Clara, my doppelganger took a knee to the head. It was an illegal move. A big dent caved the left side of his face. His nose shot sideways. A broken orbital lobe and nose. Five days later he received plastic surgery. The doctors made an incision into the middle of his skull and pulled his face down. They popped the dent of his skull and realigned his nose. The twin remained blaise, and even a bit of a dick about the surgery. He told me there was a 40% chance that his face would fall off and another 30% chance that he would bleed out of the open skin around his eyeballs and die. The surgery had me pretty worried. Turned out it was fairly routine. I thought he might die though. Bastard.

I am currently bouncing back and forth between the Bay and Yosemite. My friend’s have a place in Foresta. It’s quiet. I sleep on a bed. It’s only 20 minutes from the park. There’s no wireless and the phone service is slightly grim.

Yosemite Notes

2010-06-11T11:28:00.000-07:00

The water rose above the logs on the El Cap bridge. The Merced raged where normally it flows gently along. Yesterday, I stemmed above two trees, hopped onto the larger of the two, and climbed out to its farthest branches. Then I jumped. Even after a fifteen foot fall, I still did not hit the bottom. The water’s high in Yosemite right now, higher than I’ve seen it in the past decade.

The constant rain and snow of the spring kept wet most of the rock. El Capitan
was wet. Washington Column was wet. Leaning Tower was wet. And Half Dome- that was buried in snow. Sonora had the driest rock around . After a month and a half of trying then a few weekly sessions at the overhanging cliff, I managed to pull off an ascent of Alcatraz, a steep route involving extreme power endurance. In 1991, sport climbing magazine proclaimed that this route was one of the hardest in California. If I had been born in the seventies, I’d be a hardman. The same day, I ticked off four other hard routes at the crag, completing my long sought after Jailhouse 5 circuit- five hard routes at the crag in a day. I almost sent the Fugitive extension the next day. I did send Spike, a 5.12 crack climb at Public Sanitation and I polished off my Gold Wall Project- Wicked Gold. I only have a few more routes left to send at the Gold Wall before I’ve ticked the entire crag.

Hayden Kennedy runs a binary system. “Girls are either a 1 or a 0,” he said. “You do or you don’t.” The system became quite popular, especially after Hayden was taken advantage of by an attractive investment banker ten years his senior. The monkeys adopted the system in the hopes of getting attacked by a cougar like the fresh high-school graduate Hayden. Dave Turner took it to the next step, making loud proclamations about his $500 budget for condoms on his next expedition. He will be taking up the tri-nary system. He’ll try nearly anything. Hayden went on to describe how one of his fantasies is to have sex with an older African American woman with a baby. “I just want some of that Chocolate Milf.”

A new park employee, a young man working for Yosemite Assosciation, scrambled out on the ledges by Lower Brother, a small formation below and to the right of El Capitan. He fell. His shoe was found on a ledge. A blood covered depression marked where his body hit the ground. A couple of climbers, including a Bay area climber named Jay Wood, came upon his body, took photos of the corpse, and then proceeded to go climbing. While they made a long ascent of a moderate climb, three bears dragged the body away from where it had fallen and began to eat it. The climbers finished their route, descended and called YOSAR. When the Yosemite Search and Rescue team showed up the bears had already devoured most of the body. The team members carried away a mere eighty pounds of the man. The climbers neglect caused the body to be eaten. It’s a shameful representation of climbers.

Alex Honnold is rad. He’s sponsored by the North Face, La Sportiva, Black Diamnond, and the best of the climbing companies. He’s become a staple in the media with his bold solos of the Regular Route on Half Dome, Zion’s Moonlight Buttress, and Las Vegas’ Rainbow Wall. He’s famous. Sender films wanted more footage of Alex for their next movie. Uli Steck also crushes. He’s a hard European climber with a near onsight of Golden Gate on El Capitan. Uli wanted to try and set the Nose speed climbing record- the Grand Prix of the Yosemite pissing contest. Though the two hadn’t climbed together, they were optimistic. The previous contenders, Dean Potter, Timmy O’Neil, the Huber brothers, Hans Florine, Yuji Hiryama, had all put in a significant amount of time on the Nose. Alex had climbed the route a few times, and Uli had climbed it once. Announcements were made on the internet. The pairs first attempt saw them top out in 4 hours 20 minutes- a decent time for a reconnaissance. They talked to Jimmy Chin and Mikey Schaefer on the summit, interviewing for a National Geographic article about Yosemite climbers. Their second attempt saw them whittle away more time. They were still far from breaking the 2 hour 30 minute record. Alex started watching Uli climbed, and realized how balls out Uli was going. Uli jumped between handjams, untied from the rope, mismanaged the gri gri while simul climbing, and generally went for it. Alex became concerned. He’d been leading the entire route to that point and decided to let Uli lead. While simulclimbing the stronger climber should be on the bottom. While Alex lowered off of Dolt, Uli lead up a 5.9 crack. He fell, lobbing seventy feet through the air and pulling Alex up. The two abandoned the mission. I wonder if media pressure encouraged Alex to pick a slightly asinine project and go for it more than was reasonable.

Job Hunt

2010-05-29T00:25:00.000-07:00

My resume doesn't look so hot these days. For the past year, I've mostly worked for Touchstone writing their blog. I painted a house in Yosemite West, I wrote a few articles for climbing magazines, and I did some other odd jobs. Nowhere on my list of previous employment is anything using my Economics and Business Management degree. There's a significant lack of solid long-term employment. So I decided I need to pad out my resume to get my next job.

"So, James I see you a UC Santa Cruz alumni," the accounting manager of Deloitte's auditing department and my prospective employer will say to me. "Banana Slugs right?"

"No known predator, sir," I'll smile and wink, trying my best to be charming.

"Right right, let's see. Worked doing some freelance writing, a number of publications, oh and what's this? really!? No? Well, James. I don't know what to say....," he'll put my resume down and look at me. "Did you really walk on the moon while working for NASA?"

I'll nod. "Of course. It's part of the training for all the janitorial engineers that they go into space."

"Well, with an experience like that you could be doing space shuttle repair or building new rockets, or just about anything...what makes you want to work here?" the prospective employer will say.

"NASA wanted me to go on a dangerous mission to a remote aesteroid that was plummeting towards the Earth. I had to drill an enormous hole in it and then blow it up. It'd be me and Bruce Willis on the team. I decided I didn't want to go and figured if the world was gonna end in 3 weeks I might as well get a stable job working 50 hours a week."

And then he'll give me the job.

Nothing Tastes as Good as Sending Feels

2010-05-26T17:25:00.000-07:00

"If you lost ten pounds," Cedar fidgeted on his basalt throne at the Gold Wall, "and did some yoga, you could climb 5.14 this year."

I try not to listen to Cedar often but he had a point. Rob told me the same thing a few times, so has Honnold, and Drew Rollins, and a number of other climbers. There's a pretty solid correlation between grip and weight ratio. Be strong, be light, and you will crush- being a Man of Girth won't get you up the cliff.

After my screws in my foot were removed, I sat around on the coach. Some would say that I was just a little big, some might say I just had broad shoulders. My mom would have said that I was, "Husky." I went to Indian Creek with a lot of weight above my belt, I weighed more than I ever have before.

The wafer thin super model Kate Moss gave me my mantra, "Nothing Tastes as good as skinny feels." I realized that I had been eating a lot. I decided that I needed to adjust my weight, and tighten my belt. Before I fell in Joshua Tree, I weighed about 157 pounds. I was thin, lean and mean. I ran around 14 miles a week, not much but combined with cycling up and down from UC Santa Cruz campus a couple times a day, I was fit. After I fell, I couldn't run anymore because of the fusion in my ankle. So, I started to get fat.

After punting from the top of most of the routes in Indian Creek, I decided I need to return to the lean mean climbing machine that James Lucas once was. I looked at myself in the mirror and screamed, "Get it together tubby! Stop day dreaming about pie and apple fritters. Start flexing and do some god damn rock climbing."

I tried to enlist some group support. Shannon Moore and I stepped on scales, weighed ourselves, and said we'd lose 10 pounds by June 15. That'd be like 160 for me. So far, I'm not sure how close I actually am to that goal. I don't have a scale and suspect that I haven't lost any actual weight. My diet has gotten significantly better- less pie and candy bars more apples and grapes. I've actually been climbing really well lately. Every week, I'm doing a little better than the week before.

The plan is send the sport project- at least one, maybe both. I managed to eek out a redpoint of my Gold Wall project yesterday. I sent it my fourth try of the day, after four previous attempts. I hoped it was 5.13- but after watching Stanley send it second try, Nik Berry and Hayden Kennedy flash it, the route was quickly down rated to 12d. Balls. Wicked Gold is still hard. Then after sending the sport proj, head back to a dry Yosemite and head up on the Leaning Tower. The Westie Face seeps through most of the spring and this has been a particularly wet year. Still, I think I can do it. I'm bouldering fairly well, and definitely stronger.

I'm not sure how it started, but I must have gotten poison oak on my clothes or my hands. It looks like I virtually swam in it. The Oak covers my forearms and torso, onto my upper thighs, and across my armpits. I have to swim in calamine lotion right now. It is making me slightly neurotic. When I say slightly, I mean totally insanely neurotic. If I could lose all my poison oak, I'd ditch a solid five pounds in water and oil retention. Might be times to put on more calamine.

Fight!

2010-04-09T13:42:00.000-07:00

Everyone loves to stand on a soap box. Mounting a six by 3 by 4 inch cardboard box makes a man feel like a real man. It happens a fair amount in climbing. Recently, there was a bunch of hub bub about some Swedish dude trying to send Chris Sharma's First Round First Minute project. Unfortunately, all that happened were a bunch of passive aggressive emails. What happened to climbers fighting?

Georgia Ice runs his mouth. He's not an altogether bad guy, some might say he's even okay. He climbs by himself- mostly making incredibly sketchy ascents of routes like the Steck Salathe (Grade IV 5.9) and Leanie Meanie (5.11b) at Arch Rock. He's probably gonna die jackhammering, cordless on the rock someday- but hey, to each their own. He does enjoy a good slander session, like every other Yosemite climber. He was engaging in such worthless spray one night in Chinese Camp. He picked a rather surly target though, who became quite angry. The wall pirate kept his cool down until the free-soloist fell asleep. That's when the pirate, and his brother, made a munter mule, and hauled Georgia Ice into the tree. He dangled by his ankles til somewhere around sunrise, when another hungover monkey cut him down.

That's the story. A pretty good one I think. Georgia Ice and the Pirate never came to fisticuffs, but at least something happened. I don't like violence. I love it. I personally think that more people should be fighting over climbing disputes. Back in the day, Mr. Way used to get bitch-slapped for stating his over arrogant positions. People got punched in the neck in the Camp 4 lot for chopping bolts. That sort of thing went down all the time. Now there's just people posting on their blogs about how someone should or shouldn't be trying someone else's proj. Snooze.

Give me blood, give me action, give me a fight! Why don't people stand by their climbing convictions anymore? I want to see someone punch a fool in the neck. KYEAH!

First Round First Minute- Climbing Narc Blog post

Mick Ryan spray

Deadpoint Spray

Unscrewed

2010-04-01T23:48:00.000-07:00

I pulled my shoe onto my foot and stopped to examine a bump along the stitches of my foot. My fingers ran along the protusion. I felt a screw head. I iced my foot. The swelling did not go down. It was definitely a screw, sticking out of my foot.

Two days later, I dropped my sock next to the table at Dr. McKinley's office. "My foot was fused five years ago. I think I've got a screw sticking out." The Berkeley orthopedist examined my foot, took three X-Rays, charged me $300 and said, "I think you're right."

This morning, Lucho drove me across the bridge from his house in the Mission to Dr. McKinley's office. The good doctor swabbed my ankle in iodine, then opened a big metal case. The nurse looked inside and exclaimed, "You could do a lot of damage with that stuff!" I winced and pulled my hat over my eyes. He stuck a long needle inside my ankle, pushed anesthetic around my ankle, and then made an incision. Using a star drive screw driver, he pulled two screws out of my ankle. I could feel them being tugged out of my bone.

You probably don't think much about your body. What's your left big toe feel like right now? I imagine it's warm, and pressing against a piece of cotton- a sock picture of Obama on it. Maybe it's bare, sliding along the wood floor. Or maybe it's wiggling inside of your shoe. Regardless, you probably weren't thinking about how your big toe felt until I mentioned it. Well, just like your awareness of your big toe is incomplete, so was my feeling about my bones. Until the doctor pulled the metal out. I could feel my ankle. The bones, the hollow, the marrow. It hurt.

He placed a couple stitches in my ankle, handed me two screws- the kind that come out of the 99 cent bucket at home depot, and charged me another three hundred bucks. Thank you very much.

Hopefully, my ankle will heal quickly. Getting surgery, doing anything with the doctor- kind of sends me over the edge. I go a little nuts. I've done a lot of it in the past. I slip into a deep vortex of despair. I'm not gonna let my mind wander into the abyss though. It only hinders my healing. Which I need to do quickly, cause I want to send!

Natasha Barnes: Vegan Athlete

2010-03-29T15:45:00.000-07:00

Natasha Barnes, a Mission Cliffs climber, and bona fide rock crusher has been climbing for the past 11 years. In between sending 5.13d sport routes, bouldering problems like Thriller and Midnight Lightning in Yosemite,and going full tilt on the Yosemite offwidth circuit, Natasha attends Palmer West Chiropractic, where she is obtaining a doctorate in Chiropractics and Physiotherapy.

For the past five years, Natasha has followed a strict vegan diet. "I only eat Vegans," she jokes. Natasha abstains from animal products, processed food, and operates her body on nutrient dense food. She took a moment to talk about her diet as an athlete and how being vegan helps her send.

what are the advantages of being an athlete on a vegan diet?
Being healthy, feeling healthy and recovering faster. Nutritional stress (stress to the body created by food that has unhealthy properties) is a major source of stress on our bodies as climbers. We put our bodies through the ringer all the time and if we are not eating the right foods (unprocessed foods rich in vitamins, minerals, enzymes, high-quality protein, fiber, essential fatty acids, antioxidants, and good bacteria aka probiotics) than our bodies lack the components they need to to regenerate completely and effectively. Regular consumption of nutrient dense whole foods supports cellular regeneration which rebuilds muscle and other body tissue and is essential for recovery. Faster recovery = climb/train more often and harder = climb better.

VEGAN PIZZA. Spelt crust, ricotta, Sundried tomato pesto, basil, spinach, mushrooms, artichoke hearts and sundried tomato topping with a Malbec.

What do you eat to perform your best?

My best performance foods are whole veggies and fruits. The most nutrient dense and hydrating food. Bananas, oranges, apples, bell peppers, dates, grapes, leafy greens, nuts and seeds etc. I like to eat a big salad with lots of different veggies incorporated if I can. My favorite is one I call Guacamole salad. Mixed greens, cilantro (lots of it), garlic, tomato, avocado (2-3), agave nectar and salt and pepper to taste. It's only a few ingredients but its a winner.

Do you have any difficulties cooking on climbing trips?
No. I usually do burritos or veggie stir-fry because its pretty easy to put together no matter where you are. Plus I love black beans, avocado, tomato and cilantro...AND hot sauce!!

Sprouted corn tortilla, lime crema, shredded cabbage and carrot slaw, chile-beer marinated tempeh, cilatro, tomato, avocado.

How do you eat when you are bouldering? How about when you're sport climbing?
I try to eat pretty light while sport climbing. Bananas and other fruits for quick energy or hummus and veggies for lunch, sometimes I'll just snack on whole grain chips and salsa. I've been trying to remember to drink more water lately. While bouldering all bets are off and its cookies down the hatch. For some reason when I am bouldering I want to snack all day.

How do you add variety to your diet?
I try to experiment a lot and try different foods that I see or read about that I haven't tried before or try different recipes. A lot of the time I end up finding a new food that I totally love and I try and make it more. Its a also good way to make sure I am getting a good rotating variety of vitamins and minerals in my diet.

Will bacon ever grow on trees? How can someone switch their diet?
Haha!! Maybe they can genetically modify some plant to do that but that would be weird. It's easy to switch to a healthier diet. It doesn't have to be a vegan diet. Most of us could benefit even from a small change in diet. It's all about experimenting with new foods and finding what you like. Try to incorporate new veggies and fruits into your diet. You might be surprised. There are a plethora of web resources to help you with the transition to healthier living and recipes for vegetarian food.

http://www.brendanbrazier.com/articles/index.html

http://www.theppk.com/

http://www.veganhealth.org/

These are some.

I also HIGHLY recommend this book by Brendan Brazier Canada's best (vegan) triathlete for athletes more serious about healthy living and eating.

Border Country

2010-03-18T19:48:00.001-07:00

The ring of a hammer hitting a drill bit bounced down Gunsight Gully in Yosemite. Mad Dog’s mullet flapped in the breeze as he swore about having to sink another “bristler.” Balanced at a small stance with the help of two hooks, Mad Dog (née Dana Drummond) wailed on the drill bit. Jeremy Collins and Mikey Schaefer traded off belay duty on the ledge above a concave arc of granite.

The hard granite of Middle Cathedral Rock, with its sparse opportunities for stances—not to mention the team’s traditional ethos—kept the three climbers from placing many bolts. They moved slowly; connecting the short technical features of Middle Cathedral into a massive new free climb presented problems not only with protection but with route finding as well. Still, after six months of work in 2009, the trio had completed Border Country (V 5.12c).

Schaefer, a former Yosemite Mountaineering School guide, had scoped the line for a number of years before recruiting Mad Dog and Collins for a ground-up ascent of the route. One of the tallest short men to ever walk through Camp 4, Schaefer’s first ascents have included the first ascent of the 5.12+ Grade V face route Night Shift on Tuolumne’s Fairview Dome. A technician in the sacred art of slab climbing, Mikey walked confidently through his decade of Yosemite climbing, establishing significant first ascents in the Valley.

Mad Dog comes from Northeastern pedigree, but he spends his summers in California, working Yosemite Search and Rescue, hiding his crushing abilities beneath a Hulk Hogan mullet and a John Muir beard.

A couple of years ago, Schaefer and Drummond met Collins in Patagonia, where each had just completed separate first ascents. Collins took a few weeks off from illustrating in the Mid-west to take his horn-rimmed glasses, mild mannered, Clark Kent attitude to crushing altitudes in Yosemite.

In early June, around the time the climbers were halfway done with their route, an avalanche in China claimed the lives of Yosemite Valley monkey Micah Dash, budding filmmaker Wade Johnson, and Colorado alpinist Johnny Copp. The last entry in Copp’s journal, which was recovered in the remnants of the men’s basecamp, includes a poem entitled “Border Country,” which describes the perils of living on the edge of the unknown. Dash and Copp’s climbing goals had forced them to deal with a large increase in objective hazards- rock fall, crevasses, and ultimately avalanches. The mountains are dangerous.

Sean “Stanley” Leary, climbing with Mikey Schaefer, attempted the second ascent of Border Country. He made short work of the initial thousand feet, climbing 5.10 thirty feet between the bolts and sparse gear, and gaining a U-Shaped bowl mid route.

Stanley has nerves of steel. Four months earlier, Stanley packed the ashes of his recently departed girlfriend, Roberta Nunes, and jumped off of Patagonia’s El Mocho, tracking in his wing suit for 600 feet. The winds blew across Cerro Torre’s satellite peak spreading Roberta’s ashes blew across the glaciers. Then Stanley stopped descending. Panicked, he tore at the cord for his BASE rig. When his canopy opened, he propelled a thousand feet above the summit of El Mocho. He attempted to spiral and descend but the Patagonia winds kept him aloft for 13 endless minutes, until he was able to follow a few condors out of the thermal upwind and down to the glacier.

Four months later, Stanley returned to Border Country. He made it up to the head wall but fell pulling the hard face moves. Off the belay, Mikey and Dana had scrunched their bodies, stepping on a tiny edge, and mantling off a small dibit with their thumbs. Despite Stanley’s talent and tenacity, he couldn’t bend his long limbs into the mantle. He pulled on the bolt protecting the move and continued to the summit.

On the run-out fourth pitch of Border Country, 500 feet off the ground, I stopped. Katie Lambert, a Yosemite hard woman with an ascent of Tuolumne’s technical Peace (5.13c) to her name, belayed attentively below me. I pondered placing a tiny cam behind a small flake. I wanted to impress my attractive belayer with my climbing prowess. I shrugged. Running it out any more than I needed to wouldn’t impress anyone. I shoved the unit in, shot up another 20 feet to just below a bolt, and mantled onto a small edge.

I balanced precariously, crimping down on a wet hold as I stared at the bolt. Suddenly my hand popped. My body teetered on the brink. My hips pulled into the wall and then my back arched away from it.

I fell 20 feet before hitting a slab, flipping upside down, and rocketing down another 20 feet before the cam I had begrudingly placed caught me. Katie’s eyes went wide. The lobes of her half inch cam had bent. I groaned. My climbing prowess wasn’t impressing anyone. She met me at the belay, and we continued onto the headwall, where Katie danced up the difficult 5.12, hanging the rope for me. When the shadow of the Nose covered the entire Zodiac, we began descending, rappelling the route two pitches below the summit.

Luis “Lucho” Rivera slept in the back of his pick-up in Camp 4. Around midnight, the rangers knocked on the window, trying to wake him and alert him that he was camping illegally. He lay still, afraid of the heavy hand of the “Green Gestapo.”

The rangers shook the truck. Lucho remained motionless, with saucer eyes, hoping that they would leave. Instead, they straightened a coat hanger, twisted it through a chink in the car window and began to poke the dirtbag climber. He eventually fell out of his pickup and into the arms of the ticket-ready rangers. Despite years of establishing first ascents in the Valley, and a strong desire to climb new free wall routes, Lucho began hanging in the Valley less and less. He felt he had given enough to the Yosemite climbing scene with his countless first ascents, that a cold winter night in the back of his truck would go unnoticed by the rangers. The rangers poke and prod climbers because they often break laws. Out of bounds camping is illegal, so is power drilling, and leaving fixed lines- activities which make the logistics of climbing easier. The constant battle between climbers and the bureaucracy can be more epic than the climbing.

One of the largest bits of Yosemite climbing news in 2009 has been the definitive lack of any groundbreaking achievements. In the past decade, the Huber brothers, Tommy Caldwell, and others have established a dozen hard free routes on El Capitan with seasonal fervor. Last year, the young Alex Honnold free soloed the Regular Northwest face of Half Dome (5.12a), reviving a true sense of boldness within the ragtag crew that calls Yosemite Valley home. Thanks to a tireless crew of Bay Area boulderers, the Valley has exploded with double-digit problems and many newly developed blocks.

Compared to the tidal wave that was the last decade of activity, 2009 seemed flat: no new routes were established on El Cap, no bold solos were done, and the participants in what once was (and always will be) the center of the American climbing universe, diminished. Bachar died. Dash died. Copp died. In this hallow space, Border Country stands alone as the achievement of the year.

Unlike the free climbs on El Capitan, which had been worked and sussed on rappel, Border Country was an adventure up into the unknown. The three first ascentionists didn’t have what Bachar once called “the invisible toprope,” the mental assurance that better gear, or even holds, was coming. A dimming of the unknown.

Why the lull in the Valley climbing scene? A number of Yosemite denizens, like Stanley, have spent less time hanging in the Valley and more time BASE jumping off small bridges, planes, and remote Patagonian Towers. Many climbers, like Lucho, have avoided the Valley for fear of persecution. Not only are activities like BASE jumping illegal but camping, and generally being in the Valley presents enormous difficulties. Jesse McGahey, the current law enforcement officer with “climber ranger” status, doubled his staff in the past year.

“Climbing Rangers are a crucial piece of protecting the vertical Wilderness through outreach, education, hands-on maintenance, and coordinated clean-up volunteer work,” McGahey stated in an interview. Undoubtedly, the rangers have helped protect Yosemite, but they still chase climbers through the boulders at night. The ever-increasing bureaucracy involved in camping and staying in the park scared a number of the committed dirtbag rock climbers, the monkeys, out of the Valley.

Others have moved onto the alpine setting, trading the warm California climate for the blustery cliffs of Patagonia. Facebook updates from El Chalten, the town below Cerro Torre, were in vogue. For many aspiring alpinists, Yosemite has always been merely a training ground—not a proving ground—where they could learn to move fast, freeing and aiding, up a big wall. Once they have the skills, they move on.

Many climbers just appear to be over it. The energy involved in climbing hard new routes in Yosemite is daunting. Hand drilling on the sharp end brings more calluses than glory. The sheer adventure wears people down: the technical ground-up climbing, the offwidths, the rangers. The ditch is a meat factory that chews climbers up and spits them out. 2009 was a year with a noticeable shortage of fresh meat.

Lucho hung off the side of the Middle Cathedral, belaying and staring across the river at El Cap. Hayden Kennedy crimped his way up the wall, onsighting Border Country until the definitive mantle crux. Hayden, though only 18, has already proved himself as a true, young Yosemite force. Though lean, tall and talented, he has the flexibility of a flagpole. He tried to hike his foot up and scrunch into position for 15 minutes. Finally his teenage voice cracked, “Dude, I like c-an’t do this!”

Across the river, El Capitan loomed. Hayden’s big-wall free-climbing list had been slowly increasing and a send of Border Country would be a solid achievement. Routes like Border Country are establishing a solid foundation for the next generation, routes that will give them experience necessary to tackle the bigger and harder lines with a sense of the adventure.

Collins returned to Border Country in early November. He climbed through the tick marks that Hayden, Lucho, Stanley, Katie, and I had left for him. Below the summit, the sun dipped behind Lower Cathedral and the walls of Middle Cathedral became arctic. Collins returned to a ledge, and rappelled the route. Before he began his descent, he opened an urn and spread the ashes of Johnny Copp on the route. The scene in Yosemite changes, but the spirit of the climbers remains.

this article was published in Rock and Ice 185 and can be found online

Dominating the Boulders: Paul Barraza

2010-03-11T20:20:00.000-08:00

Berkeley Ironworks manager, Paul Barraza has worked with Touchstone Climbing gyms since 2001. Despite long hours making sure one the busiest Bay Area climbing gyms runs smoothly, the 36 year old has managed to crush many difficult boulder problems in the Sierras. Every weekend with an incredible degree of consistency, Paul drives to Yosemite, where he sends projects and develops new boulder problems. His impressive tick list includes Yabo Roof (V12), Shadow Warrior (V12), the immense Diesel Power (v10), and countless other problems. In 8a.nu's 35+ ranking, Paul is number 1 in the United States. In the first few weeks of February, Paul managed to put down a long time project- Dominated a V13 in Yosemite's Camp 4 Boulders. He took a moment out of his busy schedule to answer a few questions for the Touchstone Blog about his life and his climbing.

How long have you been climbing for? How did you get into climbing?

I loved to scramble around in the mountains as a kid, but I didn't start climbing until I discovered the climb wall at Oregon State University 17 years ago. After my first trip to that tiny gym, I was hooked. Every weekend my friends and I would go out to Smith Rock and scare ourselves silly on the technical routes there. It was a good place to learn because there were tons of great routes of every grade and you learned to use your feet.

How do you balance a full time job, a family life, and still manage to climb hard?
It's not hard when you like all three! As long as you can climb consistently and train in a semi-scientific way, you can always make progress. Saying that, I have had long stretches where I haven't improved, but you just have to ride those out as well. The nice thing about climbing is that while you might not be improving - you're still having fun!

Can you describe your training a little. How does your periodization schedule work?
Basically I boulder/train two nights during the week and try to boulder 2 days outside on the weekends. During the year I will do an training cycle (where I do intense weight training) in the late summer to get ready for the fall season and a second cycle around this time of year to get ready for the spring season. Since it is too hot to boulder in the summer, I take it easy to rest up the muscles and tendons a bit, but I still climb and hit the gym consistently so I don't lose that base level of fitness.

Dominated [v13] from Paul B on Vimeo.

Here's Paul's ascent of Dominated captured on his iPhone.

How long have you been trying Dominator? What was your process of sending such a difficult project? What's next?
I spent about 5 years working the Dominator when the conditions were good. I joked with friends that I was going to write a book called, "101 ways to fail on the Dominator" because I had tried every conceivable method and nothing ever worked out. There wasn't much to the process besides being psyched and flogging the heck out of it with a delusional level of devotion. I think I just wore down the boulder problem to the point where it felt sorry for me, if that is possible. It did help to watch Tim Doyle and Randy Puro (both of whom have done the Dominator) get on it one day to actually see the subtleties in their beta so I could see what I had to do with my body. What's next? More bouldering of course!

Paul is a member of the highly active Beta Base crew, who have established a slew of Yosemite boulders. Paul has also done some excellent work developing a solid training program, which can be read about at his blog. Training 4 Climbing.

Crosstown Traffic: A TR by Jake Whittaker

2010-03-11T19:57:00.000-08:00

A little while ago, last Spring maybe, Yosemite Valley climbers Jake Whittaker and Alex Honnold headed out to try Crosstown Traffic, a 5.13 free route established by the Huber brothers on Washington's Column. Jake, a closet crusher who is the only non-famous person to free climb El Capitan in a single day, wrote this about the route:

Alex dragged me up this thing last spring...I was kinda off the couch(off the farm), so it was extra spanker for me.

I led the first pitch of the Prow, then Alex headed out on the crux pitch which was very wet and grassy. He spent a lot of time throwing hummocks over his shoulder, hanging on gear, and looking over at me and saying, "This is the worst climbing experience of my life...."

I managed to toprope through the 5.12R first half of this pitch and thought it was rad...featured 5.12 face climbing with copperheads for gear. Then I figured out the .13a boulder problem, finished gardening it, and sent it on TR in a couple of tries...its probably a V5. Honnold quickly lapped it on TR too.

I led up the next pitch, J-tree grain for a ways, without much gear, then traversed right to, and across, a slopey and glassy ledge...it was kinda scary, with the gear way back left in the corner. I clipped a bolt and climbed up into an .11+ move right above the ledge. I tried to clip a piton but it fell out. It was only about a quarter inch long! I chucked it over my shoulder and powered through the move onto a series of stances.

From the highest stance I clipped a knifeblade. I then spent who knows how long climbing up and down the next fifteen feet, fiddlin in a few pieces of terrible gear and getting really pumped...I was starting to regret my lack of fitness.

After much whining and more up-down action I committed to the crux .12a mantel move in full savage survival mode. I pushed, I pressed, and I went for the high-step to finish. Instead of getting my foot on the shelf, I pasted my knee in desperation, quivering. Then, in full beached-whale position, I slid off into space, wondering if I'd die.

Ping, ping, ping! The pieces I'd placed popped out of the flake with ease. My feet hit the stance by the knifeblade and I tipped backwards, wondering when I was gonna smack the big ledge. Then, the knifeblade caught, I slowed, floated past the right end of the ledge, and stopped. My death scream slowly dwindled away and echoed across the valley. I looked UP at Alex, and said, "You wanna give it a go? I think I might be blown...for the week."

We switched rope ends and he toproped up to the knifeblade. He then repeated the numerous up and downs on the flake, but skipped repeating my gear placements...though I wondered if those pieces had helped steer me right, ensuring I missed the ledge. Finally he committed to the mantel shelf, but instead of hittin it straight on, he traversed left, cripped somethin, and mantled on that side. I looked away and held the rope.

"Gosh, that was scary...wait, what the f*#k?" After performing the crux mantel Alex stood on the shelf at a huge no hands, on a pitch that seemed to be a free variation to the aid line of Electric Ladyland. There, where any normal person would have proudly hand drilled a bolt, Alex Huber apparently decided to place a copperhead. Honnold clipped it, then, after some excavation, managed to get in a marginal TCU behind the ledge...where a lost arrow would've been bomber.

After much wondering and contemplation about the next move, Alex JUMPED upwards and caught a small bucket with both hands and climbed another 20 feet of choss to the anchor! Who knows what would've happened if he hadn't stuck that bucket, or if something had broke.

Note that the climber in this photo is nailing 5.10 fingers. Nailing on free climbs is fucked up!

Since I was a worthless pile of sh#t by this point, Alex dogged up the next pitch, a rad .12b with bread loaf pinches and spicy gear. He sent it second try and then onsighted the next two pitches of 5.12. I started to recover eventually, and managed to onsight the .12c flare on TR...the flare is 5.9 and the fingers in the corner afterwords is maybe .12a. After that we were both tired and it was late in the day, so we rapped before the traverse.

Back on the ground Alex said, "So are we gonna send tomorrow?" I said, "I guess YOU are...." I wondered...who goes up on grade V 5.13, which we now knew should include an "R" in the rating, kinda gets spanked, and decides that the next day would be the best time to attempt the redpoint? I spent the rest of the evening trying to decide if should take jumars...I finally decided not to. For training, I'd power toprope with the pack.

Since it was easy, I again led the first pitch of the Prow, but unexpectedly tore off a microwave sized block, took another huge and dangerous whipper, and let out another blood-curdling scream.

Alex patiently redpointed the crux, and I sent on TR. He repeated the scary mantel pitch, again we marveled at the ridiculous engineering...a couple more pitons would make it a lot safer. We established a good rhythm and Alex floated the rest of the route, though, unlike on the topo, we traversed straight right all the way to the belay just after the Harding Slot. We toiled up the rest of Astroman, and as we did the last pitch, Alex said, "I can't believe I scrambled this." He soloed it again a couple days later.

In conclusion, Crosstown Traffic is a funky, grainy, chossy, runnout, but completely rad new-school route. I still need to go redpoint, but wanna add some more pins to that one pitch. With a lot of traffic it could someday be kinda good. Its like what I imagined free climbing A4 would be like when I was a kid...and i enjoyed toproping most of it. A solid big wall partner is required because of the traverses.

additional notes by Jake Whittaker:
We traversed as per Crosstown Traffic, but at the last bolt Alex decided to continue traversing the obvious dyke feature, on toprope, as opposed to busting blank looking .12 moves into runout terrain. We couldn't tell where we were "supposed" to go till afterwards. So technically we didn't complete Huber's route. The way we went just seemed like the natural way and was super fun and safe bucket traversing. I left the bolt clipped and pulled the rope afterwards.

The initial traversing part of this pitch presents some difficulties for a follower unable to free climb and too impatient to lower out, aka: me with a pack on. I elected to unclip and run, which nearly exploded my tight fitting performance shoes. Apparently my eyes got really wide. Alex was laughing hysterically and said I looked like an owl...hoo! Coulda got real hurt numerous times on this route....

Notes: made by Eric Sloan

Very minor comment on Jake's awesome story: Alex Huber probably didn't place the copperhead on the 4th(the Hubers show the first pitch of the Prow as two pitches, odd because of the long, hard pitches on the rest of the route) pitch, as Endangered Species, which Crosstown follows on pitch 3,4 & 9 was put up in January just 4 months before Alex did his climb. (it's possible that that 4th pitch crux had some fixed pins, which someone doing EL lowered down fifteen feet and cleaned or cleaned while bailing from there). So the second pitch hummocks that J describes Alex cleaning might have been more cleaned out, and there may have been an extra fixed piece here or there which fell out or was removed before Alex and Jake did their climb(Jake describes leaving the traverse bolt on pitch 8 clipped. when we climbed EL in '07 there was a quickdraw on that bolt, which I easily reached over and cleaned from the EL pitch).

Jake Whittaker comments:

So the .12a mantle pitch is part of Endangered Species? That would explain the lack of a bolt. I'm guessing Huber had a pin behind the shelf, since it looks like that on the topo, that would be real nice to have in there. Who knows though, that guy's crazy. Honnold wasn't worried enough to do anything about it. Another knifeblade right next to the other one would be awesome too, especially as the years go by.

It sounds like you cleaned a quickdraw from the first bolt of the traverse...probably where Huber's jug monkey lowered out. I left the second bolt clipped and we went down then right at .11a-ish instead of right and up at .12c.

It definitely didn't seem like anyone had free climbed up there in a long time...and its probably already re-vegetating.

It makes it scary to repeat these routes when the crucial pro is pitons etc. that aid climbers can easily booty as they go past...not really any solution though, other than taking pins and a hammer and dealing...or being less safe.

Ok aspiring hardmen, get out there and buff this thing till it's as clean as Astroman!
---------

Further comments and the original post can be found on Supertopo.

Honnold on Being Bold

2010-03-11T19:54:00.000-08:00

Alex Honnold, a 24 year old from Sacramento California, has become a big name in rock climbing in the past three years with numerous free ascents of El Capitan, and ropeless climbs on the Regular Northwest Face of Halfdome (5.12) as well as Zion's Moonlight Buttress (5.12d), and recently Ambrosia (5.14 X). He began climbing at the gyms in Sacramento and has made an explosion in his climbing the past 4 years.

Alex Honnold Ropeless on The Rostrum (5.11c)

What's your training like? How do you train for El Capitan free routes?

My training is a little bit haphazard, I'm not really sure what the best way to train is. But I try different things.

I used to climb in the gym a lot more, when I was actually living in Sacramento. I would do 4x4s or multiple routes back to back, just random endurance training like that. I trained for Freerider [my first El Cap route] by doing 20 routes a night at the gym. Mostly 12s with a few 13s, and maybe a few 11s as I got totally worked. I guess it worked out well enough.

But honestly, I don't really know what I'm doing. I just like to climb a whole lot.

What are you doing these days?

Bishop has been fun this winter. I'm trying to build some power, in the hope that I won't always fall off of the hard moves on routes. I think I'm naturally more of an endurance climber, so I guess I'm just trying to train my weakness.

But after about 6 weeks of bouldering I'm starting to get kind of into it. It's so fun and chill. Super mellow. I see why so many people love to boulder. But I'm still fantasizing about walls. . .

How do you manage your fear?

I don't think it's so much about managing my fear, as not getting fearful to begin with. With routes like Ambrosia and long solos you deal with all the uncertainty and fear before you start. You manage all that stuff on the ground. Then when you climb the route it's already taken care of. So while you're climbing, you don't get scared.

But sometimes when I'm onsight soloing or even just doing stuff on gear I'll get gripped for whatever reason. Then I just do what everybody else does, take some deep breaths and try to keep it together.

Alex topping out Ambrosia, a v10 highball or 5.14 freesolo

What can people do to climb better through heady situations?

I think the book The Rock Warriors way gives a lot of good advice on keeping your head together. One of the really useful things I think was to approach things mindfully. As in to be fully aware of what you're doing and why. So if something is dangerous, you evaluate it and decide whether or not you actually want to proceed. And if it seems to dangerous, you retreat with no doubts.

June-uary Love

2010-02-03T21:12:00.000-08:00

June-uary 2010: What was supposed to be one of the coldest months of the year, was unseasonably warm in Bishop. The snow melted from the granite eggs of the Buttermilks. I worked on my tan at the volcanic tablelands. I fell in love.

Shannon Moore and I walking through the Buttermilks

Love never starts smoothly. I arrived in the middle of December, I left the sandstone sport climbing in Kentucky, drove past the bright lights of Vegas, through the sand dunes of Death Valley, and into a great desert. Hot springs bubbled along the side of the road. A recent storm covered the ground with snow. I stopped at the Looney Bean, a coffee shop on Bishop’s Main St., filled my body with hot chocolate and pastries, and spent an hour kicking in my sleeping bag, trying to warm up so I could fall asleep in the back of my station wagon.

Night time at the pit

The suffering began at the Owens River Gorge, a great crevasse in between the ski town of Mammoth and the honky-tonk of Bishop and the first climbing spot to dry. I drudged down through the snow. It was cold in the sun and colder in the shade. The weather moved in fast. What started out as a sunny morning on easy terrain, became desperately slapping up a 5.10 sport arête in a snow storm. Baltic. My hands stuck to the large flat edges and the heat drained from my arms. It reminded me of the time when I was on Gasherbaum 5, when the wind howled and the air froze. It was just me and the mountain. That was back in ’67, when I couldn’t afford crampons, and wrapped my feet in barbed wire to kick steps. Just me and the mountain. It was the type of suffering that some people love and the type of ex that I was happy to leave behind.

Owens River Gorge

Me on Thieves in the Temple 12a at the Gorge

I spent the first three quarters of my trip getting into bouldering shape. Pulling holds down to your waist and stepping above your elbows isn’t easy. Bouldering requires trying hard, something I can rarely muster the gumption to do. The technical nature of the Buttermilks kept shutting me down. The vertical rock is coarse, requiring fancy footwork and hard calluses. My finger tips bled. And I fell. I fell a lot. I thought about joining a club and beating myself over the head with it. This was the type of suffering that I could love.
The newness of my relationship wore me down. I needed rest. My friends and I spent the afternoon riding sleds down the Buttermilk road. The slush of the snow packed down hard enough for the orange plastic to shoot down the hill. Wesley, a chow-labrador who I was dog-sitting, chased me down, trying desperately to tackle me. Then the sun came out. Life became dreamy. The snow melted from the huge boulders of the Buttermilks. My toes stopped freezing when I went to sleep at night. I stopped hating Bishop.

In order of intelligence- Shannon Moore, James Lucas, John Vellatio

In an effort for something different, I sought out highballs, figuring they would be “easier”; the moves would be easier; the problems would just be more frightening. On the Roadside boulder, a tall v3 at the Buttermilks, the last bit to the summit involves high stepping onto a granite smear. Just as I moved my leg into position, I hit the end of my pants. The thick fabric of my Dickies wouldn’t stretch to allow me to step any higher. Twenty feet swam below me. I closed my eyes, tried to not think about breaking my ankle, and screamed, “Eek!” I summited. My friends laughed at my mouse squeak. I am tough. I knew that the Buttermilks loved me for that.

Creg Phares working Highbrow at the Happies

People swarmed the more gymnastic climbing of the Happies and Sads. The volcanic rock, with its big holds, big moves, and steep terrain, attracted a more movement oriented crowd, the people who focused more on the physical difficulty of the problems than the aesthetics. A guy at one of the warmup boulders, the “Girlfriend” boulder, stood around looking for just that. He was focused on digits just not the bouldering kind. I shook my head. I was a single man but I had found my love.

Matt Ciancio at the Happies

Eventually, I had to leave Bishop. I needed a job. Actually, I didn’t need a job-I needed a paycheck. I left with sore muscles, less skin, and an intense feeling of satisfaction. I wasn’t sure if I’d find a job back in the Bay area. I was sure I would return. How could I fall out of love with a place that tortured me?

Another evening in the Pit

All photos thanks to Eric Ruderman

Catharsis

2010-01-23T18:41:00.000-08:00

March 2009: I pace beneath Joshua Tree's Intersection rock, the 120-foot blob in the middle of the park. I look for the long, red bloodstains I left four and a half years ago, in winter 2004, but the wind, desert rain, and time have washed them from the stone. When my fingers and toes warm, I begin free-soloing the North Overhang. Just below the 5.9 crux, I stop to breathe and chalk. This time if I fall, I want to die -- I cannot deal with falling again.

His sequin jumpsuit reflected the flickering casino lights. The ice skates cut smooth lines in the ice, sounding like helicopter blades as he delivers my dinner of crackers.

It was two weeks after the fall before I realized the ice skater wasn’t real. I woke from my coma dreams to a numbing morphine drip, prone in the ICU at Desert Springs Memorial Hospital near Joshua Tree. I wanted to return to the coma. My dreams were better than the reality of the pain and failure. The doctors spoke stoically when they discussed the eight hours of operations thus far -- the damage to my occipital lobe, the spinal fusion, the compound fracture of my ulna. I couldn’t quite understand what they had done. As Arthur C. Clarke wrote, “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.”

I was Frankenstein’s monster, confused, angry, and sewn back together wrong. I tore the IV out of my arms -- I wanted to pull on my jeans and crawl to El Cap. My identical twin, Matt, held me down while a nurse sedated me.

Eventually, I calmed. The thick calluses of my hand were peeling away, I had shed 20 pounds. Long rods held my back together, plates supported my sad, destroyed left ankle, and pins cemented my elbow. Falling 100 feet had taken its toll. My body hurt.
The Stonemaster and writer John Long has described Joshua Tree as “a poor man's Patagonia.” It’s a raw, windy place, but also a winter sanctuary for dirtbag climbers, the old school-rock jocks who’d drop acid on Wednesday nights and run wide-eyed through the yuccas. I never liked the coarse quartz monzonite, the blob formations, or the wind, but the park had hardened the Stonemasters, and I wanted to emulate my heroes.

During my 2004 winter break from college in Santa Cruz, I ran around the busy Hidden Valley Campground, soloing a half-dozen moderates as I warmed up to redpoint
I moved fluidly up through a hand crack to a four-foot roof -- the crux. I reached out cautiously, felt the jams, sunk my hand around the roof’s lip, and pulled over. I neared the summit. I felt secure knowing I’d sent the crux, 100 feet of space swimming below me. Then I repositioned my feet, moving them underneath my body, a slight miscalculation. I started to barndoor, my balance suddenly gone.

I didn’t want to scream. I had too much pride. Death, however, was imminent, and there would never be a more appropriate time to cry for help. So I yelled. Seventy feet of air rushed by. A second later I hit a ledge. I was ecstatic and felt invincible. I started to sit up and promptly rolled off, striking the ground 30 feet below.

Trying to walk it off, I stumbled to my feet. But then a seizure bolted through me and I convulsed, crumpling to the ground. Nearby climbers ran to help, the crater I’d made beginning to fill with blood. I heard the faint thud of helicopter blades as I blacked out.
Imagine a world where others fulfill all your desires. They feed you. They dress you. They even wipe your ass. I was there and let me tell you, it was miserable. This was my world for 25 days at the ICU in Desert Springs, and then another 50 days after that, at a stroke and rehabilitation center near Santa Cruz.

John was a stroke victim and my first rehab roommate. He was a 60-year-old man who’d become helpless overnight. John’s family struggled with his transformation more than he did. He wore a diaper, and the room often smelled. One night, John left his bed and began to wander the room, mumbling about the bathroom and edging close to my bed.

“John, the bathroom’s in the corner,” I said. He ignored me.

I stabbed the callbox button, desperately beckoning the nurse. I was paralyzed, unable to leave the bed, and now John was going to crap on me. Eventually, the nurse responded. I was helpless; I was a 23 year old baby.

There was nothing inspirational about learning to walk again. It was painful, even though I stood during my first physical-therapy session. Seven seconds passed. I sat, rested, and then tried again. My legs wobbled precariously at five seconds. I felt uncertain at six. Would I fall? I fought through, watching the clock tick till 15 seconds. Later, I tried to spray to Matt about how walking made me feel excited, like I was climbing again. Sitting in my hospital room playing Fable on my Xbox -- a gift from my oldest brother, Chris -- Matt looked at me and asked, “How do I get the combat multiplier up for my hero?”

I progressed from a wheelchair, to a walker, to a cane. I hobbled back to school and began the spring quarter. A few more surgeries, and 381 days after the accident, I climbed again.

December 2005: A half-dozen Monkeys, climbers I knew from Yosemite, sat slandering by the fire in Joshua Tree. It was my first climbing trip since my accident. Even falling off routes I’d onsight-soloed, I was happy to be on rock again, to share J-Tree’s cold desert winds with friends. A couple of sloggers -- a pair of old Cascade climbers -- ambled up with a bottle of whiskey.

“You guys hear the story about the kid who fell off the North Overhang?” asked one, a 50-year-old pharmacist from Seattle.

My Monkey friends cackled, and then stabbed their fingers at me and screamed, “That's the guy!”

“What the f--k’s the matter with you? You get hit in the head with a hammer or something?” the pharmacist asked.

From my tent the next morning, I heard the pharmacist going off in his campsite. “What an idiot,” he said of me. “The Old Dads used to get that stuff wired before they soloed it.”

I felt a knife stab my heart. His words touched on a belief I’d long held: that I was a failure. Soloing had forced me to step into the void, to confront my insecurities and become confident. Now, I only had the notoriety of my failure to keep me company… and the $500,000 in hospital bills, the surgeries, the pain, and my slow return to climbing. Still, my fall had not crushed me. I decided to invent something better for myself.

Over the months that followed, I ignored the nerve damage -- the loss of movement in my foot, the stunted left arm -- and the trepidation. I obsessed over climbing and convinced myself I’d been rebuilt harder, better, faster, stronger. In the spring, I moved into a tent in the woods behind UC Santa Cruz, funneling my rent money (from student loans) to climbing trips. I spent more time at the crag than in the classroom. During breaks, I went to Smith Rock, Indian Creek, Zion, Squamish Tuolumne, Red Rock, and Hueco Tanks. I stacked my classes two consecutive days a week, enduring marathon days of economics and accounting principles that then left me four uninterrupted days in the Valley. I wanted to be a real rock climber: I imagined it and I became it.

March 2009: I drive into Joshua Tree by night, sleeping restlessly. I am a better climber than when I fell. I have the physical ability, but wonder about the emotional control.

I finish chalking my hands, inhale once, and then swing out above the void. At North Overang’s crux, I rock onto my foot, jam my hand, and pull through. The climbing is over quickly --. I wonder how I ever fell. Standing on the summit, I can imagine I’ve undone my failure -- that I never took that fall.

For a moment, I forget about the haunting dreams, the lingering pain, and the scars. I am normal again. This is what I worked so hard for. The desert wind blows, chilling the titanium rods in my back and the metal plate in my ankle. My fingers trace the foot-long scar that runs down my spine. I realize the scars will never fade. And then the moment is gone.

Published in Climbing Dec 2009

The Hipster Handbook

2010-01-18T14:10:00.000-08:00

We rolled past the gawking tourists and the gear-laden climbers, the hoards who hobbled up to the roadside vistas and bunny-slope routes. My pickup eeked into the parking lot of the Tuolumne store and I swaggered out. Why shouldn’t I feel proud? I’d just kept it in neutral for the entire twelve-mile drive down the pass.

But as Max and I told each other, we were more than a pair of dirtbags coasting through the summer, getting by with no money and living out of a beat-up pickup. The Hipster Handbook, the little blue Bible I kept on my truck’s dashboard, pegged us as “deck”: hipster lingo for cool. We followed its words religiously, shunning and reducing to kitsch anything held dear by the mainstream tourists, thru-hikers, and regular rock climbers. (Although we’d stolen the book from the tent of a New York employee- a Neo-crunch, a new wave hippy.) We slandered weekend climbing trips, families, and careers as trappings of an overworked middle class.

A dozen climbers lurked outside the store, spraying about epic ascents on the regular routes of every major dome. I glared at their shorts and long underwear and frowned. I would never be a tragically dressed gumbie again. I might end up as a tragic gumbie, but never one with poor fashion sense. The Hipster Handbook had taught me that much. Instead of zip-up pants and high-tech polyester shirts, I wore working-class denim jeans and pink T-shirts made for menopausal women with catch phrases like, “They’re not hot Flashes—They’re power surges!”

I glanced in the truck’s side view mirror. For the past week, as the book recommended, I slept on my side to maximize my cowlick. The tourist may have seen a climber with unwashed hair but I knew better. I looked good.

“What is hip about repeating routes?” I asked. An over-sized Eagle Scout thumped his guidebook on the tire of his Hummer and ranted about having to share a top-rope anchor with a group of NOLS students.

Max rolled a cigarette, smoked it, then ground out the tobacco and tossed the tiny paper in his pocket. His eyes shifted from the finished coffin nail to the open meadow beyond the parking lot. He stared blankly for a moment then responded, “Nothing.”

We coasted my truck down the road to the hillside fortress of Phobos Deimos. One of the only true cliffs in Tuolumne, this formation features perfect granite, and an excellent opportunity for first ascents—mostly because of the horrendous hike to the cliff. We pounded up the steep trail whittling our bodies down to the ideal hipster body fat of 2%. The right side of the cliff boasts steep classic cracks, the kind routes that attract Semper Fi climbers and the hardy Eagle Scouts. But we stared at the cliff’s far left side, at a black-streaked corner buried underneath decades of dirt and moss and lichen.

“That is our first ascent,” I told Max. That is our glory. That is the Hipster Handbook.”

“Looks dirty,” Max said. He loved to state the obvious.

“We just need to clean it,” I laughed. Sincerity is the new irony.

Max rolled another cigarette, letting the long strands of Bali Shag hang from the end. He stuffed his hands in his pockets while he smoked. “Cleaning huh?”

For a week, we were proletariat, rappelling from the top of the cliff with over-sized goggles, dust masks, and an arsenal of wire brushes, posing as heroes of socialism.

Max swung on the rope next to the crack, holding a thick wire brush. “What is the opposite of deck?” he asked.

“Fin.” I packed a medium wire stopper with hippie lettuce, lit it, and inhaled deeply, trying my best not to burn my lips and still get high. Hipsters are resourceful.

Crud covered Max’s face. “That is what this is.” Soot crept into his nostrils, and lichen streaked his black hair grey. “This is fin.”

I hid underneath a rock, safe from the waterfall of debris, and the scrubbing. I’d suddenly remembered that hipsters abhor the antiquated notion of work. I shouted to Max, hoping to distract him from the labor. “Just think of the tassels.”

Max paused, stared at the rock, and loosened his grip around the wire brush. Obviously, he had been neglecting the Hipster Handbook's glossary.

“The tassels: the girls. Ladies love a first ascentionist. We will be famous,” I lied. Max returned to scrubbing with a new vigor.

When the cleaning was done, we started climbing. On the first pitch a television-sized block detached from the wall and fell onto Max’s chest. The block pressed onto him as he jammed his hand deeper into the crack. With a casual shrug, the block left Max’s sternum and flew between his feet to the ground.

“Watch out!” he yelled.

I stepped two feet to the side as the granite block crashed into the rock where I had stood. If I’d been hit, it could have killed me or worse, maimed me and tossed me into a mindless job, sulking over my injuries in a cubicle. I watched the shrapnel fly through the air.

“Nice Max,” I said, checking to make sure my hair still had a perfect cowlick, then bobbing my shoulders with a nonchalant shrug.

Max quivered for a moment then he too shook it off. Hipsters never lose their calm. He continued to a sloping ledge. From there a widening crack split open the granite book of the climb.

We had scrubbed the rock so a waxing moon butted the straight line of the crack. I fought through 5.10 moss before hitting a strip of actual rock and finally some splitter granite. For five feet, I was in heaven. Then the crack opened and my foot, my ankle, and my leg sunk into the gaping hole. I struggled up the dirty offwidth, imagining myself in purgatory. (delete then) I banished this thought as a regression: The Hipster Handbook had replaced my dog-eared paperback copy of Dante’s Divine Comedy, an along with it, my all-black outfits and forced Italian accent.

Toward the top of the pitch, I jammed my paw into the rock and tried to crank through a roof section. The granite bit into my skin as I yarded on the fist jam. I did not manage to pull the move but I did manage to pull off quit a bit of skin.

Before our next try, we scrubbed more so that the moon next to the crack was close to full and the climbing was almost clean. With little difficulty, Max dispatched the overhanging crux combining the fierce fist jam and a small crimp. I followed but my bloody fist ooozed out of the jam.

I never managed to climb the route. Max thought it was 10c. I thought it was 11a. We called it 10c.

“It will be better downgraded anyway,” I said. “Hipsters always sandbag.”

We hiked the ropes, the brushes, the goggles, and the dust masks down to the truck. In the week we had hung at the base, we had seen no one. Just the rock and open Sierra sky, that heavenly stillness and calm light. Just that feeling that came over us, at times, when everything we did, even climbing, seemed like a game. (edited) The YOSAR climbers were too busy pretending they worked, the weekend warriors were slaving in their cubicles, and even the guides never hiked that far.

Max and I fell into my pick-up.

Unfortunately, there was no coasting back to the store; it was uphill and we had to push. We arrived in the parking lot tired and worn.

“That was deck.” I glanced in my truck’s side view mirror. Sweat and dirt cemented my hair. The pomp of my cowlick had disappeared. The work, the grime, and the effort of the Hipster Handbook had transformed me. Now, I could not even pass as a proletariat in an old Soviet Film. I looked square. I looked midtown. I looked mainstream.

“Yup.” Max hacked up a black ball of lichen. “That was deck.”

The line never made it into the Tuolumne guidebook, despite our efforts to convince the mainstream how rad the Hipster Handbook was. The guys at the Tuolumne SAR site claimed the route had already been climbed. The mountaineering guides claimed it had never been touched, and for good reason.

I do not know if we made a first ascent or not and it does not matter because, after all, Max and I had escaped the confines of the ordinary. For a summer Max and I were the only hipsters in Tuolumne. We were kids who spent all our time out in the wild. All we had was miles of granite and a compulsion to be better men than we yet knew.

The last time I looked at the line, it was covered in moss again.

The Hipster Handbook 10c FA Max Hasson and James Lucas

The Lost Generation

2009-12-28T10:25:00.000-08:00

The walls were closing in on me. After work, I stood in the meadow. El Capitan and Middle Cathedral moved ten feet closer each day. I barely rock climbed any more, spending the majority of my time sanding and painting a house in Yosemite West. I went to the job site late and made up for it by leaving early. The pressure of working a menial job and being too tired to climb tore at me. I needed to escape to find something new. I had contracted ditch fever.

Aaron checking out the climbs at the Red

A native Kentuckian, Aaron wanted to leave Yosemite to visit family and meet up with Hayden, a fresh out of high-school sport wanker and his upcoming partner for a trip to Patagonia. The Red River Gorge, home of the State’s largest concentration of quality sport climbing, sat a mere half hour from Aaron’s home. When he mentioned splitting gas at the job site, I immediately tossed two liters of high octane energy drinks and a batch of homemade brownies into my station wagon. We escaped the vortex of the ditch and the staleness of staying too long in Yosemite, pounding out the 2500 mile drive to Kentucky in a 48 hour continuous push.

Aaron, Matt, and Hayden to break a tree at the Left Flank

Though I’d been in Yosemite for a few months, I arrived at the Red not having climbed for a few weeks. I wasn’t out of shape; I consider round is a shape. I started climbing Monday, checking out every crag, trying as many routes as I could. I was psyched. By the following Monday, I could barely make it up the warm-ups. I was worked. Apparently, seven days of climbing makes one weak. At the top of Tuna Town (12d), one of the uniform jug hauls that the Red is famous for, all the climbing hit me. I got jazz hands and Elvis legs. I pulled up the rope, trying to clip the anchors. My hands slowly opened as I shook like an autumn leaf. I whipped. The ground rushed towards my face. This was insane. The biggest impression I’d leave on the earth would be a two foot crater where I decked. Why couldn’t I find a nice safe desk to sit behind? After seventy feet of screaming, the rope slowed. Hayden launched to the third bolt, and I came level with him.

Local cowboy Cory Herr on Flower Power at the Madness Cave

Hayden climbed with slightly more success. On the left side of the Mother Lode, at the GMC wall, 8 Ball (5.12d) follows an obvious corner system, arching rightwards as it nears the anchor. The fumes off a blunt of “Kentucky Dro” drifted across the Madness Cave as Hayden finished his bowline, and shot up, trying to onsight the technical route. He used his ninja footwork up into the corner and then to the base of its arch. A line of chalked holds followed the arch out right. Instead, Hayden headed straight up a desperate path of unchalked crimps in no man’s land. The vision quest began. He wandered about the face with his elbows pointing skyward and his body shaking. He fought to the anchors and managed to pull it off, despite climbing completely off route.

“I could see how most people get suckered out by those big chalked holds to the right. The crimp sequence above sure was heinous.” For the most part, the climbing at the Red is straight forward. Crimp left hand, crimp right hand, pull up. But even the best get lost. They go on these vision quests, the rights of passage where they struggle, get lost, and realize a bit of who they are.

On the drive back to camp from the Mother Lode, the fall sunset turned the clouds a thousand shades of orange. Hayden choked up. That night, he bought the after adventure beverages from the beer trailer on the county line. Maybe he found a bit of himself because that night he got lost in beer.

Hayden on Take That Katie Brown 13b

After climbing for a few days, Hayden, Aaron and I rested at Aaron’s cousin’s apartment in Richmond. The Slade Weekly ran an article about the local community law enforcement. The chief of police wanted his officers to command more respect so “Officers who grew a mustache received a 66% increase in pay.” The town’s class was made more evident when we ate breakfast at a greasy diner, the Waffle house. The snaggle- toothed waitress said “Ok, sugar” when I ordered pancakes. She said “Uh-huh darling” when I ordered orange juice. I wanted to order bacon but I was afraid she’d call me her boyfriend. While I wanted to get lucky in Kentucky, the idea of trapping myself in a place where most genetic characteristics go to die, scared me. Plus she could have eaten corn on the cob through a chain link fence. Before we left, I stopped to reconsider. Maybe she was the girl for me. After all, she had something the three of us didn’t- a job.

Me climbing some 12a at the Left Flank

Business Weekly discussed the current high rate of unemployment coining the term the “Lost Generation”- the young and unemployed, who have been disproportionately affected by the economic down turn represent an enormous demographic. Unable to even grab the first rung of the corporate ladder and faced with a depressed income due to being stuck in a career below their educated abilities, this group of high-school drop outs and college graduates are lost in America. Some of them, like me, found their way to the Red River Gorge, and more accurately, the camping behind Miguel’s Pizza Shop. They wander about causing trouble, roaming listlessly, and contributing to society only through their basic consumption.

Late night fireworks on the road by Twinkie

A 30 rack of Miller Lite in camouflage cans sat next to a gravity bong at the camp site. A high school student in Richmond kept us in heavy supply of ounces of brown stems and seeds that were bricked together and called “Kentucky Dro”. Our basic consumption, the cheap beer and brick weed usually kept our insanity at bay, but more often it ignited Aaron. After a blunt and a six pack, he’d shout, “I do what I marijuana!” He shot bottle rockets and M-80s at anything that moved then started enormous wax fires causing mushroom cloud explosions that lit up the field around the camp fires. Aaron let loose; he had escaped a long summer of humping haulbags, sanding and painting houses, and stacking wood. He scrounged his dollars and bought his ticket to Patagonia, trading his manual labor for a career in big wall climbing.

Aaron's wax bombs

After more pyrotechnics for Aaron, more huge whips for me, and more desperate onsights for Hayden, we spent another night in Richmond. At midnight, Hayden rustled on an air mattress when the door suddenly opened.
“This is my house and I need to use the phone.” A tweaked out woman barged in screaming, “I won’t kill you.” Hayden evaluated the woman from his sleeping bag on the living room floor.
“Uhh…,”Hayden said. He attempted to listen to her rapid fire gibberish and provide some advice but she only stared and babbled on.
In a moment of complete maturity; Aaron offered the woman some direction. He propped up on one elbow and yelled from the couch, “You’re lost. Now, get the fuck out of here. “
The tweaker pivoted on her heel and bolted from the house, slamming the door behind her.
Hayden pounded up the stairs, running into the guest room, and waking me. “Dude, did you hear that? She was tweaking and randomly came into the house. Weird.” Hayden watched her run across the back yard towards another Kentucky townhouse. “Dood, on a scale of 0 to 1; I think she was a 1.”

Hayden on Table of Colors 13b at the Left Flank

The Kentucky weather soured when we got back to the Red. Hayden and Aaron left for Colorado to train for their upcoming Patagonia trip and prepare for their Gasherbaum 5 adventures. I drove west to the next crag. The radio played a song about a cowboy casanova who broke hearts all across the Midwest. I tuned it all out, watching the odometer click off two thousand miles. The endless flats of Oklahoma forced me to reflect, something the whirlwind of Kentucky hadn’t let me do.

Hayden and I fighting at the Overtow wall

Climbing offers an easy escape, a justifiable excuse to ditch out on sanding and painting, an opportunity to forget about the despondent economy, and the possibility of a life behind a desk or worse, a mop. It’s easier to climb than to grow up. But was I just treading water rock climbing? Was there any sense in it all or was my life just a series of scrambled adventures: tweakers busting into the house, huge whippers, pyrotechnics, and the search for a “1”. I stopped the seriousness of my thought. What would Hayden and Aaron do? They’d say “fuck it”, turn the radio dial, and search for gangster rap in middle America.

Plastic Prince

2009-12-23T09:40:00.000-08:00

Snow blew in through the window of my red station wagon. Inside was a nuclear meltdown: sweat soaked my cotton shirt, and my palms wet the steering wheel. I drove 13 hours before deciding that Boulder was in the wrong direction. I had planned to devote myself to three months of writing and climbing, to buckle down and make my dreams of being a real writer and rock climber a reality. I was also headed to a future with no money, no place to live, and an intense feeling that I had been living this lifestyle for too long.

On the side of the road, I called my twin brother and told him I was returning to his couch in California. I needed to kill the bohemian inside of me. For eight years I had lived the dream, traveling and climbing. But after nearly a decade of hopping between crags, living in a tent, and scraping by on peanut- butter-and-jelly sandwiches, I wanted to be more than a dirtbag. I wanted some security, a steady income, a sense of home, and some companionship. I wanted to be a regular member of society.

Moving to Berkeley, back to California, meant that while I searched for a career I would have to stay in the city and away from the walls. Adjusting from the dirtbag lifestyle to a normal one involved trading real rock for the unknown of plastic. Still, I approached the climbing gym with confidence. I was a seasoned veteran with ascents of El Cap in a day, onsight free solos of 5.11, sends of scary trad climbs and pumpy sport routes. How hard could gym climbing really be?

John Schmid nudged me toward the front desk of a Bay Area climbing gym. Apparently, my longtime climbing partner knew how to smuggle me past the entrance fees, a hurdle that had always kept me out of the gym. John waved his membership card, mumbled something about a guest pass, and then loudly announced my name: “He's kind of a big deal." And they let me in for free. This was going even better than I thought.

At the lead cave, I groped the plastic on a tower and stared down at the rainbow of tape dotting the footholds. I grabbed an orange hold with black tape and white spots then realized that I needed to crimp the black hold with the white tape and orange spots.

Searching the kaleidoscope of holds, my forearms bulged and I froze. In a last-ditch effort, I threw for a jug above my head. I hit it, stuck it, but then the wall spit me off. The hold spun. It kept circling as I slumped onto the rope. I had tried hard on Midnight Lightning but had never managed to spin anything on it. I lowered to the ground, dejected.

John said cheerfully, "Why don't we boulder? Maybe then you can become a real gym rat."

John was a Jedi knight. A former dirtbag climber, he had transitioned to the city well, and now had a successful nursing career, a beautiful girlfriend and an unbelievable ability to crush indoors. He was my role model—a real rock climber and a plastic prince. I followed his lead to the bouldering cave, and launched upward. A tiny series of polished holds had spit me off nine times before I finished it.

"Yes!" I screamed. I hung from the top with intense satisfaction. This almost compared to an ascent of Astroman. I was well on my way to being a badass gym climber. I smugly dropped to the ground, and searched the start holds for the grade. "Vfun," it read. My jaw dropped. This boulder problem was easier than V0? My ego plummeted, and I crumpled into a ball. A desk jockey saw me huddled below the problem, and walked over. "Yeah, dude, like half the tape fell off. Didn't you hear the beta from the Thursday Night Bouldering session?"

Lying on the ground, groaning and letting my pumped forearms recover, I noticed the circus around me. Little kids jumped around, couples fought over topropes, and a dating scene flourished. A dude sauntered toward a group of women, struck a pose, then pedaled his feet up the wall. Outside, the gym climbers had brought tales to the crags of the slinky yoga goddesses and other beauties who tore across the lead caves. They insisted that gyms were total meat markets.

"Haven't you read the articles in the magazines? That's exactly what it is like," they said, punching me in the arm.

Looking around, I noticed that, unlike at the Northwest Face of Half Dome, the Moonlight Buttress, and the offwidths of Indian Creek, there were girls at the bases of most of these routes. Maybe the plastic princes had a point.

I wondered if I could ever make it in the city. I was overwhelmed with the difficulty of the gym climbing, and by its busy culture.

John tried to reassure me. "Maybe you aren't the best gym climber. At least it's a place to meet girls."

I started thinking about who to approach. Surely the women would like me. I am, overall, a decent guy. I just needed to be genuine. Then I remembered the plastic princes, how they strut around with bare-chested bravado. At the crags they had boasted, assuring me that their tactics worked. Maybe that was how you got the girls? I puffed my chest, and sashayed forward.

"Are you running toward me or away from me?" I asked a girl on the treadmill.

Mascara smudged with sweat below her eyes as she hit a button on the dashboard and increased the speed of the treadmill.

"Well," she responded, "Now I am running away from you." So much for the cheesy pick-up lines. The plastic princes had been only partially right. The gym, I decided, was one-quarter meat market and three-quarters butcher shop.

This was too hard. The spinning holds, my damaged ego, the girls, the gym rats ... The reality of climbing at an artificial wall was overwhelming. This was the hardest crag I had ever been to. Why bother with any of this? There was no way I could attach myself to the city lifestyle if I could not even deal with the climbing.

I left Berkeley and headed for Bishop. Three hours into the seven-hour trip, I ran into a snowstorm, and headed back to a gas station to buy some chains. At the store, I stared at the price—$60. Instead, I bought a pack of M&Ms, sat in my car, and tried to decide what to do with my life. I ate a green M&M and thought I should go. I could keep climbing, ignore the loneliness and lack of fulfillment. I could be a man on the rock and let my passion for climbing be enough. I ate a red M&M and thought about stopping. I should become responsible, find a job, start a career, and commit to being something more.

Then I ate a handful of yellow M&Ms and made one clear decision. I needed to end my indecisiveness. The marginal existence of a dirtbag was romantic bullshit and completely overrated. Experience taught me that much. The city was something different. It would give me a chance to climb, work, and provide my life with some balance. I smacked the steering wheel and gave up on the frivolous lifestyle of a dirtbag climber. I headed back to Berkeley to try again. I drove three hours and then made the 15-minute walk to the gym. I really wanted to send the pink route anyway.

Published in Rock & Ice

Tales of the Temporary

2009-08-27T13:00:00.003-07:00

Americans are twice as likely to kill themselves on a Wednesday. At work, the stapler eyeballed me, beckoning me to punch little bits of metal into my skull.

The recession doubled the competition for jobs in the Bay area; I fought with hundreds of other applicants to file papers for the California State Bar. At 8 am, during the hump of the week, I started shredding, filing, faxing, and copying. During my fifteen minute break, I sat on the curb, watching San Francisco's financial district's honking traffic. My head fell into my hands and I was in Yosemite climbing for a moment. The glacier polished cracks swallowed my hands and the Merced flowed lazily beneath me. Then the exhaust from a Greyhound tore me from my day dream. Those ten seconds of dreaming were the highlight of 120 hours of work. I shuffled back inside to shred, staple, file, fax, and copy. I hoped that the stapler would kill me. The job was death by paper cut and I was bleeding out.

The temp gig lasted three weeks. The job before that lasted three months. I ran food at a bar and restaurant in Berkeley. The restaurant manager eventually sat me down. I expected a raise or a promotion. There was nothing of the sort.

"James," he crossed his legs. I wondered if the stench of beer and pizza would ever wash off him. "Why are you here?"

I needed a job to get established in the Bay area, and to "springboard myself into a corporate environment." I wondered if the bullshit was thick enough. Maybe he wanted something more philosophical, more Zen. It was Berkeley. My mind raced through vague memories of Plato's Symposium, of Siddhartha, and of the stories I'd heard at the few Yoga classes I'd been to. What should I say?

Whatever he wanted I wasn't quick enough to answer with so he said, "You walk without a sense of purpose."

I didn't know how to respond. This was not exactly a promotion- actually it was the opposite. I stared at him. Maybe if I didn't blink for thirty seconds my eyes would start tearing. How could he fire a crying man?

At 8 am, in Saturday morning, I started my regular job or rather the less temporary one. When the sun came over the top of Half Dome and hit Washington’s Column, I began up the Enduro Corner of Astroman. The rack felt anorexic as I thrutched my way up the splitter crack. With his tube socks, mullet, and passion for classic rock, Mad Dog defines hard trad climbing. With an associates' degree from the Yosemite Valley Community College, and solid work on his bachelors at the University of Patagonia, Mad Dog could run it out with a thin rack. As an aspiring rock jock, I wanted a piece at my knees, waist, and chest. Instead, I punched it through the greasy splitter crack. I thrutched, fell on my jams a few times, and made a half dollar sized gobie on my hand. Mad Dog hiked the pumpy crack. At the belay he attributed his skills to his high sense of fashion

"It's important to go acrylic. Stripes help too," he yarded up his socks and fired up the Harding Slot.

Though there seemed to be truth his words, I suspected that Mad Dog's skills came more from years of climbing. He'd been working on YOSAR for four years, freeing the Regular Northwest Face of Half Dome, Free Rider on El Capitan, and managing an ascent of the hairball aid climbing test piece, The Reticent Wall on El Cap. He spent his winters in Patagonia. In his free time he traveled to Alaska and the East Coast with his lady friend. He'd made a commitment to the climbing lifestyle. If successful and dirt bag could be used in the same sentence to describe someone, they’d fit with Dana “Mad Dog” Drummond.

I moved to the Bay area 9 months ago in an attempt to solidify my life. Big words and phrases like “career”, “professional development”, and “paycheck,” had a sudden pleasant ring to them. A move from the transitory life of a climber towards one of successful city dweller. It hasn’t happened. First I walked without a sense of purpose and then I wanted to put staples in my head.

My skull bonked against the rock behind me, snapping me back to the moment. “Get a piece in,” I told myself. A long stream of blood flowed down my arm. The Harding Slot had not gone well. I fell. And I gobied. We finished the route, ran down canyon, and now as the sun started to fall over the western end of the ditch; I struggled up the off width of The Rostrum. I stacked my hand against my fist, slotted my knee and looked at the cracks’ wide jaws. I had no gear for twenty feet and a strong desire to pass out on lead. Suddenly, taking a stapler to my temple didn’t sound so bad.

I struggled to the belay, clipped in, and fell against the cold granite. Mad Dog hiked the crack behind me, grabbed the rack, and led to the top singing The Scorpions’ “Rock You Like A Hurricane.” At the summit, I thanked him for dragging my carcass up the Astroman-Rostrum link-up. “You didn’t do too badly for a weekend warrior,” he shouldered the rope and sauntered off to the car. I followed slowly behind.

Though the climbing had been hard for me, I’d move with a sense of purpose- a task I’d been totally incapable of in the restaurant, too apathetic to try in the office, and too despondent to attempt in the city. Cementing myself to an urban lifestyle, attaching myself to that lifestyle was too hard. I’d tried. I walked back to my car and started to run a mental budget. This plus that plus this and that…I could make it out of the city at the end of October. We drove to the Swinging Bridge below the Sentinel and in the dark, we dove into the cold Merced. The water stung the cuts on my body but they would heal. A few more weeks of work and that pain would be over too. I could become a gypsy, get tube socks and be a hard man like Mad Dog. At least return to the dirt bag lifestyle...even if it was just temporary.

One of My Heroes

2009-07-14T16:30:00.000-07:00

I held the rope nervously as a man twice my age with four times my courage ascended the runout face climb.

John Bachar moved with a delicate grace. His feet transitioned smoothly onto each rugosity of Hammer Dome's classic 5.10c Shadow of Doubt. At each bolt, he stopped, leaned into the wall and mimicked the stance that he would take if he had been the first ascentionist hand drilling the route on lead. John climbed the route with a casualness and poise I had never seen.

On Sunday, July 5, while climbing on the Dike Wall in Mammoth, John fell. It is unknown what caused his fall or where exactly on the wall he was. John laid in a pool of his blood, breathing but unconscious. The rescue team moved as quickly as possible, carrying him across a boulder field to a nearby lake, where they loaded him into a motorboat and brought him to Mammoth Hospital. John died in the hospital, due to the severity of his injuries.

John Coltrane belted into a funky solo on his sax as John scrolled through his slideshow and dozens of photos of soloing in Joshua Tree. There was John bouldering on Up 40, sticking it out on the line on More Funky then Monkey, and being cool and composed on Father Figure. Hearing the voice of Johnny Rock describe soloing touched me. He spoke about slow warm ups, about taking a fresh approach to soloing everyday. Cool and calculated emotions controlled his ropeless climbing; when he felt off or insecure in his movement he simply stopped. Soloing was an integral part of the climbing experience.

A few days after John’s slide show, I found myself at the base of Joshua Tree’s North Overhang on Intersection Rock. Four and a half years earlier, I fell from the top of the formation while free soloing. My body flew seventy feet before hitting a ledge. I rolled off and fell another thirty feet to the ground. I laid in a pool of my own blood. It was a lonely place. I had 8 surgeries, spent 81 days in the hospital, and returned to climbing 381 days later. John inspired me to return.

The four-runner bumped, shaking its black frame side to side, as Public Enemy belted heavy, old-school beats. The SUV parked on the side of 120 between Tenaya Lake and Tuolumne Meadows. The bass kept booming as John, Lucho, Linh, and I fell out of John’s rig.

We marched a long thirty minutes to South Whizz Dome, wheezing from the high altitude of Tuolumne. We skirted a small marsh, then hit a small slope of granite. Just around the corner from the start of the dome came the wall- a hundred fifty feet of technical steep edges and knobs. Kurt Smith and John established many of the hard, run-out, ground-up test pieces. John made the first ascent, on top rope, of a beautiful black streak in the middle of the wall. From a ledge sixty feet off the ground, Blackout follows a series of walnut knobs for sixty feet. Kurt onsighted the route, drilling two bolts on the lead, snagging the first lead ascent, and solidifying the 5.11 route as a serious undertaking. The route with its old bolts, and scary old-school vertical climbing is the definition of a “museum climb.” John flaked out the rope, grabbed two quick draws, and a couple of cams.

After fifteen feet of delicate climbing, John clipped a quarter inch rusty bolt. Another twenty feet passed before John clipped another rusty quarter incher. He moved slowly, placing his feet, shifting his hips, and transferring his weight onto the overhanging knobs with the elegancy of a ballet dancer and the funk of Flavor Flav. He danced his way, unprotected for thirty feet, to the top.

A few years prior, John crashed his car while driving back from the Outdoor Retailer show in Salt Lake City. The vertebrae in his spine were fused and he had limited mobility in his neck. We talked extensively about recovery, about the best ways to deal with trauma, and return to climbing. John told me my recovery was impressive. “You’re one of my heroes,” he said. Watching John climb Blackout, to fight his injuries and return to climbing as bold as before, made the metal in my spine become a little more pliable.

I free soloed the North Overhang. It was a cathartic experience for me. If I had fallen again, I would have wanted to die. Trying to fight through the pain would have killed me-if not physically, then emotionally and mentally. John’s candid talk about soloing invigorated me, and reminded me how precious those ropeless moments are. His talk planted a seed in my mind to return to Joshua Tree.

A week before he died, we talked about meeting up this summer to climb some more scary routes in the meadows. I wanted a ropegun and John’s passion for climbing was insatiable. He wanted to get his granite legs underneath him before heading to the meadows. John always climbed so solidly. It pains me to think of him falling. John was a legend. A man made immortal not just by his deeds but by who he was. He will be missed.

Dashed Dreams

2009-06-06T17:30:00.000-07:00

Rock climbing is inherently dangerous. Every guidebook, every piece of climbing gear, and signs posted at every major climbing area proclaim the dangers of the sport. It's easy to ignore the dangers. Occasionally my eyes are opened- a friend will pop a tendon, or sprain an ankle. These accidents are common and heal quickly. And I ease back into believing that rock climbing is safe. But it's not.

Eight years ago, in the employee kitchen in Curry Village, a group of climbers and I stood around slandering, plotting how we would eat that night.
"I just went grocery shopping. I've got meat and vegetables." Mikey Schaeffer said.
"I've got some pasta, sauce, and a bunch of pots." I added.
"I've got $2 and a half empty jar of peanut butter." Micah said in classic dirtbag fashion. Micah was a rock monkey, living out of "the technobago", an old RV he parked in the Camp 4 lot. He supported himself on the paltry funds he made during YOSAR jobs while he climbed obsessively.

The next summer, during a rest day, Lucho, Jens, Amelia, Micah, and I piled into a truck and drove to Oakhurst. We bounced out of the valley and ate at a small taqueria. We devoured basket after basket of chips. Micah made sure they were constantly refilled.

Micah and Johnny Copp went to China to climb Mount Edgar in the Minya Konka massif. The mountain is a sub-peak of 24,790-foot (7,556 meters) Mount Gongga, the highest mountain in the Sichuan Province in western China. The pair were accompanied by Wade Johnson, who planned on filming the ascent for Sender Films. An avalanche buried the team. Micah's body has not been found yet but with fifteen days without contact, it is pressumed that he is dead.

On Sunday, Lucho and I headed over to South San Francisco. Josh "Trundlesby" Thompson was having a barbeque and house warming party. Nearly a decade ago, Josh, Lucho and Micah made a push ascent of Eagle's Way, an A3+ route on the right side of El Cap. On the summit, Micah had asked Josh to send up his shoes on the haul line. Josh attached them wrong. When he and Lucho met Micah on top. Micah told Josh, "You're an idiot." He looked at Lucho and said, "I don't know what you did but you're an idiot too." Then he threw his hands in the air and yelled, "I need to get laid!" And the monkeys were alright.

After telling me the story, Trundlesby handed out plastic cups of champagne. He stumbled to the middle of the backyard and said, "I just wanted to take a moment to remember our friend. A lot of you might not know him but some of us did." Josh nodded to me and Lucho. "But he was one of those guys that tried really really hard even though he wasn't that good."

One spring, Micah wanted to redpoint the Phoenix, a classic 5.13 crack by Cascade Falls. He woke up before dawn to get ideal temps. He fought on it for a week. He never got it.

What Micah lacked in talent, he more than made up for in tenacity. The short man had a muscular build, tiny T-Rex arms, and a huge chest. His only advantage in climbing seemed to be his chiseled fingers which he slotted into the cracks of Indian Creek regularly. He redpointed the Regular Northwest Face of Halfdome, hiking to the route for all of the half dozen attempts he made. Later, he showed up at the cafe with the strong comp climber, Matt Seagal. He announced that he and Matty were gonna make the first all Jew free ascent of El Cap. Micah had the big wall experience and Matty had the ability. The two made an early repeat of the Freerider, a 12d grad VI. Beyond his perseverance on the rock, Micah managed to push through college in classic monkey style. It took him 8 years, a number of different schools, and a lot of dedication before he he earned a bacheleor's degree in History from CU Boulder. Finishing school was a proud accomplishment. Micah was able to do more than just drag his knuckles and climb full time.

Josh continued his speech. I thought he might cry. Affectionately known as Jewpac, Micah had a fond love for gangster rapper. He ranted feverently about the influence Tupac had on extreme alpinism. As Josh finished his words, I thought about Micah. I remembered his charm, his big nose, his loud voice, and his classic dirtbag antics. Mostly, I remembered that he was a monkey, a large part of the climbing community, and a good man. He will be missed.

Momma

2009-05-24T13:09:00.002-07:00

"So you want to go bouldering?" I shivered. The sun still hadn't hit Yosemite's Birdalveil parking lot. Sweeney smoked a cigarette by his pick up and shook his head.

I shouldered a pack full of ropes and gear and trudged towards the Wall of Ages, the yellow expanse of granite to the right of Bridalveil falls. Sweat dripped down my shirt, and the cotton stuck to my chest when we got to the base.

"You never sweat like this when you're bouldering." I told Sweeney.

Sweeney nodded. He rolled a cigarette, ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and then rolled another coffin nail. From the base, the 5.12 bombay chimney pitch loomed over us. The route looked wide, dirty, and heinous.

"Lucho onisghted the route. Then said it was awesome. You know what that means?" I asked. Sweeney coughed a cloud of smoke and peanut butter. "It means its totally scrappy, covered in lichen, and not worth doing. So you want to go bouldering?" I didn't wait for an answer. I shouldered my pack and stared heading back down to the car.

"Lucas!" Sweeney shouted. His eyes were wide, and his body coiled, ready to spring and tackle me to keep me from leaving. "I'll link the first two pitches. You won't have to lead the offwidth."

I dropped my pack, and set up to belay. Sweeney quickly dispatched the first pitch, which the topo claimed as solid 5.10 but felt more like 5.9. I followed, arriving at the belay to find that Sweeney hadn't linked the pitches.

"I thought there might be too much rope drag," he handed me a dozen over sized cams. "Looks wet too."

I climbed into the maw of the 5.10+ offwidth and thrashed inside of the eight inch crack for ten then twenty then thirty minutes. The sharp calcite deposits on the side of the granite wore enormous holes in the knees of my best pants. Strawberries sprung up around my kneecaps, and my skin shined a bright pink. I'd progressed five feet off the belay when I decided to retreat.

"You wanna go bouldering?" I handed Sweeney the rack, praying that he would get stuck inside the beast of the crack and want to retreat to an afternoon of cranking hard moves close to the ground. I had visions of sending V sickness and while working on tanning.

Instead Sweeney grunted up the outside of the crack, stacking his fists and pulling through the bulge of the wide crack. Fifteen minutes later, I followed him up, repeating the fist stack, and making the holes in my pants a little bit bigger.

I led the next pitch, which follows a crack, into a roof, and then encounters a difficult lip boulder problem. I chimneyed and stemmed up the crack. At the lip, I jammed my hand in a small constriction, skated my feet on the lichen, and tried to pull through five or six times. Finally I pulled harder, and then fell. I slammed in a cam and french freed through, then headed to the anchor. Sweeney followed the pitch, claiming that the 12c crux felt more like easy 5.12. I shrugged. Could be.

Sweeney headed up into the bombay chimney of the next pitch. His feet pedaled on the dirty rock and granite flakes showered on my head. He jammed his hands vertically in the crack, traversed, then pulled over the roof, continuing to the belay. I followed. The 5.12 felt more like easy 5.11.

The next pitch found me wandering up a thin crack covered in bushes and flakey granite. The 5.11+ rating felt easier but I was wandering into no man's land, wondering what the topo said, and hoping I went the right way.

"Where do I go?" I shouted down to Sweeney but I couldn't hear his directions over the roar of the falls. I stared at him while he pointed up then left and then right.

"We could still go bouldering," I screamed.

Sweeney lead the next two pitches, linking the two short bits with a lot of rope drag. Surprisingly, these two 5.11 pitches were hard. They had difficult boulder problems protected by bolts.

We summitted and rappelled the route. The topo we had said to leave the tag line anchored to the belay at the second pitch and rap from the fourth to it. We barely made the rap to the fourth pitch, employing some shenanigans.

The pitches on the route were short. The climbing was dirty and a little bit easier than the rating Jones had. A couple days later Honnold and Gleason made the fourth ascent. Alex said the route was probably 11+. That sounds about right.

At the base, I rubbed my worn knees, and brushed off the gray flakes of granite. This was adventure climbing. "We could have gone bouldering," I told Sweeney.

He lit another cigarette, smoked it. Then rolled and lit another one. He'd onsighted the route, climbing it casually.

"Yeah," he blew out a ring of smoke as a mass of dirt fell out of his hair, "we should have gone bouldering."

Miss Diagnosis

2009-03-08T23:33:00.001-07:00

"Where I come from men do not just take musical instruments off the wall and play them." The grey haired woman shifted in her bar seat, sipped her lager, and glared at the old man who hobbled away.

"He probably wanted to impress you," I responded, "Taking the guitar may have been inappropriate but it is sweet and romantic too." I imagined him as a thief who borrowed the guitar to steal her heart. I stood next to the door of Bar Clay, a pub on the Berkeley Oakland border, waiting for my friends to grab their jackets so we could head down the street to another bar.

"Actually," she brushed her hair back exposing the handsome lines around her eyes that spoke of her wisdom. "he's a professor. He has assburgers."

"Did you just say assburgers?" I shuddered picturing a heinous venereal disease afflicting geriatrics. I wanted to bolt from the room.

"No. I said Aspergers." Her cheeks turned crimson. "Google it. It's a form of autism that explains why they are so intelligent but so socially inept." She smiled. "Will you hang the guitar back up on the wall?"

I grabbed the instrument by its neck and hung it on the wall, annoyed that she had ignored the professor and then flirted with me. I pulled on the door to catch up with my friends who had passed me during our brief conversation. As I headed to the sidewalk I turned and said, "I will look it up. Thank you."

A few weeks later, I stood below a pink tower of rainbow holds, watching a chunky twelve year old struggle up the wall of the Berkeley Ironworks climbing gym. Leo skated his feet higher, aiming to for a ledge ten feet off the ground.

"That's good. I want to come down." He hung on the rope half way to the cave. Stretching, his toes dabbed the ground.

"Are you sure?" I asked. I wanted him to climb a little higher. He had pushed well past his previous high point of laying on the ground. I liked Leo. He said funny things at random times. When I was a kid, I did the same thing and had even been chunky like Leo. My mother told me I had broad shoulders and then we would buy my pants from the husky department of J.C. Penny's. I wanted Leo to succeed. He just needed to try a little.

"Yeah, that is okay. I am all done." Leo pointed to the ground and I lowered him.

"Maybe we can time ourselves running up to the cave instead?" He said.

I smiled, grabbed my stopwatch, and said, "Sure, Leo. Is that okay with you Adam?"

Adam, the other twelve year old in our small group, nodded and we passed my stopwatch around. Leo clocked 1 minute 54 seconds round trip. Adam whittled his time down from a little over 1 minute to a reasonable 45 seconds. I did it in 7 seconds. Everyone was pleased. At the end of the session, I took Leo to his nanny.

"Thanks-you are so good to him." She smiled at me.

"No problem." I shrugged. "He is fun to be around."

"Yeah," she sighed. "He's lucky to have someone like you. A lot of kids think he is a bit strange..."

I thought about the relationship Leo had with Adam, and then how he acted around me. Neither Adam nor I noticed anything wrong with him. I tilted my head.

"He does have Aspergers you know?" Her commented made me angry. Suddenly, I noticed the nanny had an odd pear shape to her body.

Leo seemed like a normal kid. Smart, awkward, fine. I turned out alright and I had been the same way. I watched him pull his sweat pants up to his breasts, look down at his exposed shoes, and awkwardly try to tie his laces, unable to quite bend over and reach his toes. I remembered being clumsy when I was his age and not being able to reach my feet. I had struggled to be normal and felt like a stranger in my body. Most people called it adolescence.

"Well," I grinned at Leo. "He's a good kid. I don't know what Aspergers is, but he seems alright to me." I suddenly wondered if everyone that was just alright really had Asperger's.

"Okay Leo," the pear shaped nanny said. "Let's go. Goodbye James and thank you."

"Bye James," Leo said. I waved back to Leo, gathered my belongings, and headed home.

I dodged land mines on the walk to the front door of my room in Berkeley. The anarchists I lived with organized book fairs, leftist protests, and group meetings on gender politics and theories on society as a spectacle. but they acted like true anarchists when it came to cleaning the dog shit off the walk way-no one did anything but let it rot.

In my adjustment from my former life as a dirtbag rock climber, to one of a normal functioning member of society, I felt confused. I was a deer in head lights in the city of Berkeley. And then on the walk to the porch, I would slip on dog shit. The sliding around made me feel unnaturally clumsy. Further, I had been acting awkwardly, saying the wrong thing at the wrong time to the wrong people. While the phenomenon mainly occurred around people I did not know well, it concerned me greatly. Was I really having identity issues or did everyone else just not know what to make of me?

I tried talking about my problems to my close friend Mandi, she said "James, I wish you could see a therapist sometimes." Then she ended our conversation.

My identical twin brother emailed me from Thai Land, where he was training as a kick boxer. He told me, "Just talk to more people. Find a girlfriend." He was closest to the truth.

They both told me I was a little weird. How could I disagree with them? They knew me so well. Without adequate funding I did not know what to do, so I looked to internet gurus for advice. I Google searched a few words that described myself.

"Intelligent, socially inept, clumsy." I hit the search key. A number of descriptions about nerds, and dorks popped up. And then in the middle of the page was a description of Asperger's Syndrome.

"Well," I said to myself. "I already know I am a nerd and act like a dork. There's nothing wrong with that but there seems to be something wrong with me. Maybe that's why I am really smart but say weird things all the time. Maybe that' why I feel like I have so much in common with the professor and Leo. Maybe that's why my friends think I am so weird." Confronted with so many maybes, I continued searching the internet. Suddenly, I realized the truth of it all. I had contracted a severe case of Asperger's.

In 1944, Hans Aspereger, an Austrian pediatrician, noticed a pattern among his young patients. The adolescents displayed abnormalities including verbosity, abrupt transitions, literal interpretations, and mis comprehension of nuance. They used metaphors meaningful only to themselves, they had formal or idiosyncratic speech, and they had oddities in loudness, pitch, intonation, and rhythm. Further they showed audio or visual abnormalities. They had an enhanced perception of small changes in patterns such as arrangements of objects or well-known images.

Whenever I tried to meet new people, I displayed symptoms of Asperger's. Though sometimes shy and reserved, I could be loud. I used idiosyncratic speech; I used expressions that only I understood. I talked about rock climbing with strangers and said phrases like "gnarly", "burly", and "jedi-enhanced drop knees". I noticed small changes in people, especially women I saw on a regular basis. When they wore different clothes, cut their hair, or just about anything, I could tell. I had visual abnormalities.

I stayed up late, pacing my room, rolling in the chair in front of my desk. What was wrong with me? Did I really honestly, have Asperger's? I read discussions about the syndrome, searching through internet forums. I had an uncanny ability to relate to other people with this problem. This suggested that I was part of the group.

I worked my fingers to the cuticle, pounding at the keyboard, searching the internet for answers, I found gurus like R. Kaan Ozbayrak, a doctor who had received his degreee in Turkey, worked in psychiatric wards for Massachusetts children, and had published volumes on Asperger's. The academic work sounded definitive, correct, and in many cases applicable to myself. I scrolled through stories of diagnosed children, like Elizabeth Andress, who had large vocabularies but lacked social skills. In elementary school, I was known for my large lexicon and total lack of friends. I related to the stories.

I stomped through my room, sat down in my chair, and then abruptly stood again. In a moment of panic, I shouted," Oh god! That's me. I do have Asperger's!"

"Shut up James!" An anarchist screamed through the thin walls.

"I can hear you talking to yourself." my house mate Lee yelled. "And it's three in the morning!"

Suddenly, she stood in my room. "And just to let you know, you do not have Asperger's. You are being an egotistical jackass, thinking you can diagnose yourself."

She stopped huffing, looked at me, and said, "Now, relax and go to bed."

The clock read 3.am.

"God," I thought, "she was right."

I was delusional, thinking I could diagnosis myself by reading about it on the internet. I calmly laid in my bed, slowing my thoughts. Why did I believe I could answer my own questions? I inhaled. Why did I constantly think I was right? I exhaled. Was I a self centered asshole? I breathed. I was. I sometimes told girls that I was kind of a big deal and then acted like a jerk to impress them. I rose from my bed, walked to my chair in front of my desk, and I typed a few words about my enormous ego. I wanted help. I hit the search button on Google. Suddenly, I realized the truth of it all. I was a perfectly normal single male. I was a megalomaniac.

The Zodiac

2009-02-24T10:41:00.000-08:00

I sat on a plank of rock high on the right side of Yosemite's El Capitan, letting my heels dangle and kick the granite wall. My climbing partner, Jamie, handed me half of a sandwhich. I spread the bread and examined the contents. There was chicken, lettuce, and cheese. I began folding it all back together when I noticed one important detail. Jamie and I rested on Peanut Ledge; sixteen hundred feet of sheer rock, and twenty hours of non-stop work sat below us. My focus shifted back to the side of El Capitan and the meal in my lap. Delirious from climbing through the night, I suddenly had a moment of clarity. The sandwhich had mayonaisse. I hate mayonaisse.

My climbing career began at Vermont Academy. After a fall of riding the bench on the football team, and a winter slogging through the snow on a pair of cross-country skis, I joined the students and partipated in the climbing club.

The club spent half of our time behind the gym in a small room filled with mattreses, dust, and a ceiling of climbing holds. We fought to swing around on the holds in the room, excitedly taking turns. A third of the time, we climbed the wall of plastic holds in the gym. Occasionally, on our best days, we got to take trips to the Keene Bridge, Rumney, and the other local crags to climb outside.

The twelve passenger van filled with an assortment of helmets, ropes, harnesses, and students. We bounced over the hills east to New Hampshire. The bluffs of granite seemed unnaturally large when I climbed them. I was terrified whenever I set foot on the rock during these trips. While I shook like an autumn leaf on the grey stone, the other students sat below eating their sandwhiches and talking casually about their classes. When I finished and began eating my lunch, they smoothly ascended the rock.

The naturally talented Grayson Holden showed the rest of us how to climb. He flowed up the rock, confident, and relaxed. He exmplified the ideal student of Vermont Academy-intelligent, modest, and an outstanding athlete in snowboarding, and rock climbing.

While the academic aspect of high school came easily to me, the social aspect did not. I held students like Grayson in high regard for their ability to mold both. They held their ideals close to them, and then made smart and cool descision when under pressure. I graduated from Vermont Academy and made a half-hearted attempt to attend the University of Vermont. I felt lost in college, out of place, and not ready despite my high school preparation. I left Vermont and headed to Yosemite California, hoping to find the same confidence that Grayson and the other Vermont Academy students had.

In Yosemite, I worked a menial job making beds at a tourist lodge. I climbed the granite walls, learning to be comfortable with who I was. I climbed before work. I climbed after work. I climbed on my days off. Soon, the nervous shaking I had experienced while a student disappeared. The small crags turned into larger cliffs and then into entire walls. While the physical challenges of rock climbing were hard, I approached the climbing with the academic rigor I had been taught at Vermont Academy. I tackled the smallest and easiest subjects first and progressively learned how to deal with the harder bits until a fall day in the late afternoon, I found myself at the base of the Zodiac, an 1800 hundred foot route up the side of El Capitan.

I led the first section, hanging the rope for the initial eight hundred feet. I yarded my way up the rock, clipping pitons, and placing gear into the rock. Jamie followed behind me, climbing the rope. When the sun fell, when we were 800 feet off the ground, Jamie took over and began leading. I followed him through the dark. After midnight my head fell against the granite wall, bouncing against the rock as I fell asleep then woke from the thunk of my skull hitting the rock. With a late afternoon start the majority of our climbing was done in the night; we had little sense of exposure.

Then the sun rose and a sea of granite swept up below us. Jamie hung beneath a large roof, his feet kicked in space as he reached up and placed a camming device into the rock clipped into it and stepped a little higher. He placed another piece three feet higher and continued the crawl. This was we had moved all night, like caterpillars ascending a few feet at a time. When Jamie reached a ledge, he established an anchor and clipped in our climbing rope.

I fixed my jumars to the rope and ascended the line. I found Jamie laying on his back and muttering when I joined him at Peanut Ledge. I nodded to him. I understood. He could barely move from exhausation. We exchanged gear so that I could led us through the next hundred feet. I sat down for a moment of rest and Jamie opened our small daypack, handing me the sandwhich.

The Yosemite deli had coated the bread with a pink cranberry goo. Delirious, I fixated on the mayonnaise. Should I or shouldn't I? The question drove my mind from the cliff towards something more real and more important on a daily basis. It was an important moment. I hated mayonaisse and was on the verge of freaking out on the side of El Capitan. I recalled Grayson and the other students at Vermont Academy, how they remained poised and true to themselves. With my blackened hands, I grabbed a piton from our rack, and scrapped the sandwhich clean, leaving a trail of metal, but removing all the mayonaise. I decided to keep my ideals and stay away from mayo. I ate the sandwhich, iron and all. We headed to the summit and topped out the noramlly five day adventure in a 21 1/2 hour sprint.

Double-Double

2009-02-22T22:08:00.001-08:00

I have a question for you. I do not want you to tell me the truth. I want you to tell me what you think I want to hear. Here is the question: Am I fat?

Rob Miller and I stood on the top of Private Property, a crag outside of the Tioga Pass gate to Yosemite National Park. From nine that morning until five that evening, we climbed at the steep granite sport cliff. The routes featured some of the best rock in the Sierras. We stuffed ourselves first with the quality of the climbing and then we over loaded on quantity. At the parking lot, I sat with the sliding door open in Rob's mini-van, packing my face full of junk food, trying to satiate my appetite. I was tired, hungry, and I desperately needed to stuff myself.

Rob's calves are hearts, his biceps bulge through his shirt, and when he is not establishing new hard free routes in Yosemite, he works as a personal trainer at his own Crossfit gym in Santa Cruz. Rob is a dictionary; he has definition. He carefully cracked a 16 ounce can of imported Japanese beer, grabbed two pieces of low-fat string cheese, and tore open a bag of organic nuts.

Rob poured some macadamias into his hand. He counted them, plucked three from his palm, and returned them to the bag.

"How many macadamias do you eat Rob?" I jammed a fistful of cheese poofs into my mouth.

"Well James," his eyes scanned me. "I eat ten but you, since you are a little," he paused and his cheeks ballooned, "you would only want to eat seven."

I spit out my Cheetos.

A year later, Rob and I stopped at Inn & Out burger in Manteca. We regularly stopped on the drive back from Jailhouse, the steep Sonora crag we climbed at. This was our twentieth time getting dinner there. Occasionally, I would buy Rob's burger or he would buy mine.

We walked in and behind the counter was Stacy, the beautiful Inn & Out girl. Flush with the pride of having sent my climbing project, I sauntered up to the counter.

"I have the Inn & Out urge." I told her. She tilted her head.

"I would like a double-double," I said. "I really like the two meat patties on the sandwhich."

She punched the keyboard.

"And can I have it animal style?" I smiled. Stacy tilted her head again. I turned to Rob and nodded, indicating that I would buy his meal. Stacy stared at me then looked at Rob, who began his order.

"We are together," Rob said, looking at the menu.

Suddenly, I became aware of what had just happened. I had told her that I had the in and out urge, that I wanted something with extra meat between the buns, that I liked it animal style, and then Rob told her we were together, like we were not climbing partners but partner partners. My mind stutterred. She probably thought I was a complete freak. I had just blown it with the fast food woman of my dreams. I needed to recover and so I blurted out, "We are not really together. He just tells me I am fat sometimes."

Rob and then Stacy both stared at me. Rob shook his head and ordered the protein burger, the double-double without the bun. Stacy batted her eyes at Rob and stared at his muscular frame. I inspected the color of my shoe laces, and thought that perhaps I should have gotten a protein burger. Maybe if I cut out the exrta buns, I would not be so fat.

Did I Kill Raleigh Collins?

2009-02-12T15:50:00.000-08:00

In the winter of 2004, I escaped my duties as a student and headed down to Joshua Tree National Park, the long time haunt of many of my friends. They spent most of their time running around the blobs in the park, climbing ropelessly. That was the game in Joshua Tree and I followed suit. On December 18th, I stretched and headed around hidden Valley Campground, looking for routes to warm up on. My friend Dave and his buddy Raleigh booted up at the base of Double Cross, a moderate 5.7. I followed the pair up the climb and we talked and laughed about the day.

When we finished, I soloed Tabby Litter, a 5.8 on the other side of the formation. Raleigh suggested it. It was a good route albeit short. Dave went back to camp and Raleigh and I bouldered a little. We climbed up and down on the Pyramid Boulder. I was getting worked and wanted to solo more. Raleigh asked me if I wanted to go climb Baby Apes with him on the Bachar Toprope wall. I shook my head and said I would rather go off on my own.

I went to Intersection Rock and fell a hundred feet soloing the North Overhang. I laid in a pool of blood at the base. I felt destroyed. My friends came and helped me. My family flew from across the continent to be by my side.

I came out of the hospital and recovered substantially, going on to becoming a more successful man and climber. My story became well known in the climbing community. I am sure Raleigh heard it.

In March of 2006, Raleigh Collins ran off the top of Sports Challenge Rock and dove into the boulders below. He died taking a smaller fall than I.

I did not know Raleigh well but I often wonder if I set a bad precedence. If he thought that he too could stand up from a disaster, and have his friends, his family, and strangers rush to his side. I set an example. Now I sometimes think to myself, "Did I kill Raleigh Collins?"

I do not know. I only wish we had climbed Baby Apes that day. Maybe we could have helped each other. At the least we could have laughed about something.

Blammos

2009-02-11T11:20:00.000-08:00

As a teenager in church, Arthur stood next to me. I hung out a lot with him and his younger brother Jordan when I lieved in Vermont. Arthur sold me his old pick-up which went to Rifle, and Vegas, and served as a dirtbag climbing rig for years. Anyway, Arthur Adams lives in San Francisco. When he is not busy playing as a robot in the Oakland based band the Phenomenonauts, he front mans a band called Blammos! This is by far Arthur's best musical work. Here's a little story about how he came up with the name as related to DJ Fog on Pirate radio.

Stand-Up Show At the Barn

2009-02-02T20:16:00.000-08:00

Life has given me quite a few lemons in the past week or so. I have been trying to stay afloat. I watched this to make myself feel better. It's me performing Stand-up at the Barn Theater Santa Cruz. I am not sure whether to smile or to cringe.

Bar Fly

2009-01-30T17:48:00.000-08:00

Every hour the doormen switch from the back gate to the front door. The majority of patrons come in through the front entrance on Shattuck while the waiters, runners, and bartenders go for their cigarette breaks out towards the back alley of Allston. While the Jupiters employees neurotically inhale coffin nails, I play solatiare on my Ipod. I shuffle through most of the deals, only accepting a quarter. An ace or two with an even mix of black and red cards must show up before I start; if you're gonna play with yourself you better have a good hand.

At 1:30 Matt, or one of the other black shirted bartenders, will emerge from the bar, step out to the patio, and shout, "Last call for alcohol!" The other doorman and I lock the gates, close the windows, and pick up random pint glasses. By quarter of two, most of the patrons have left. Those that haven't get a second warning, "You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here."

My twin brother closes the bar down a couple nights a week, and Monday night, after I'd turned off the patio lights, he poured me a Racer 5 while he finished stacking the glasses.

"I'll be graduating in the spring Matt, with an Economics and Business Management degree. After that, I'm gonna have to get a job, a house, a car. I'll be slaving away to repay my student loans, my medical bills, and a fucking mortgage. I'll gain twenty pounds and won't ever climb again."

"No complaining at the bar," Matt started wiping down the wood counter.

"That old man sobbed earlier."

"The guy at the end of the bar? Phil, the human walrus? He's been coming here for years. You could wring a pint of Red Spot out of his mustache." The upstairs lights were shut off and the bar darkened. "I wasn't listening to him. He was ordering a beer and got teary cause the keg of Red Spot was dry. Besides, I'd cut my shoulder off before I'd let him cry on it."

"Oh. But what am I gonna do? I suck as a climber, and there's no way I could write for a living."

Matt snatched my glass, tilting his swollen nose down at me. Two days prior he'd been in a Muay Thai fight. Though he'd fought well, he'd received a TKO; he'd been bleeding profusely from a small cut on his nose. It was a bad decision by the referee. "Life's a disappointment," He placed two beers on the bar and drank with me. "And in the morning it's a hangover. Let's go see if the Pasand Lounge is still open.

Fortunately, the other bar hadn't closed yet. The bar stool swayed uncontrollably as I climbed on to it. There was a small karaoke stage and a pale thirty year old relived his glory days in the corner, singing the Cure. A head fell onto my shoulder, and an arm caressed my bicep.

"Looks like someone likes you James," Matt smiled. The Asian girl next to me was barely on her stool.

"Hey?" my mind shuffled through a series of bad pickup lines. "If I told you you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?"

Matt's eyes rolled as the girl grabbed my arm tighter to keep from falling off the barstool. The bartender stared at her.

"I think you've had enough," he took her beer from her and placed it behind the bar.

Suddenly, there was serious Asian fury. "You, you can't take that!" The drunk girl grabbed an empty pint glass and threw it with Nolan Ryan speed at the mirror behind the bar. Glass sprayed across the room. The girl swiped her hand on the counter top, knocking a few more glasses over.

"Get the fuck out of my bar!" The bartender stared at the shards of glass strewn through the room. A bouncer ran up, grabbed the girl, and dragged her to the street. as the bartender picked up glass.

Matt plucked a piece of shrapnel from his beer, and downed the rest. "You couldn't afford a condom anyway. Let's go, there's a couple of pale ales back at the house." He tossed an extra bill to the bartender. "Be thankful this shit doesn't happy at Jupiters."

I stumbled behind, happy that, at least for a moment, life was exciting.

First Published with graphic in the Lattice Journal Novemeber 2007,

Panic At the Disco

2009-01-22T00:02:00.000-08:00

“My favorite color is Shiny,” Ralph Wiggim

On the weekdays hummingbirds buzz between California fuchsias, pollinating the brightly colored flowers. A dozen turkey vultures circle the nearby jail, scanning for road kill. Small hawks and crows soar by, swarms of cliff swallows rush about, while osprey and blue herons fish in the waters of Tulloch Lake.

On the weekends, there are no birds. There is no beauty. The steep cave above Tulloch lake transforms from an aviary of the Sierra foothils into an outdoor disco of rock climbers. Dozens of manoxeric body builders, skinny little tough guys, swarm Jailhouse to tackle their climbing projects, random lines of basalt holds that dance up the wall. They bring electronic barometers to remind themselves that 62 degrees fahrenheit and 25% humidity means they have a 57% chance of success. They lug twenty pound car batteries to charge their portable vaporizers and fuel their marijuana addictions. They wear Ipods, t-shirts with curry stains, funny hats, and their favorite pair of underwear. They do anything to bring themselves luck as they prance about the base. Sometimes the spandex glad dancers even bring climbing gear.

The blocky, overhanging rock of the cliff, the Jailhouse demands that the sport climbing afficiando wear sticky rubber thigh pads, commonly known as Colorado etriers. Rectangles of sticky rubber are adhered to neoprene pads to help the sport climbers stick their knees to the rock so that they can rest on their abdominal muscles and rest their tired fore arms. While some of the climbers use adhesive spray to keep their pads in place, the majority of the sport climbers wrap the top of the pad with duct tape. After each attempt, the tape is peeled off the leg, wadded, and carried out of the crag at the end of the day. With an average of seven pitches climbed during the day and a wrap for each leg on every pitch, the duct tape adds up quickly. I sentenced myself to forty three days at Jailhouse, which translated into a large amount of duct tape to carry out. In an effort to consolidate my trash, I started to make a ball. Eventually, the tiny bits of duct tape snowballed into something bigger, something to cheer up the crag, something to reflect a little light into the dreary bits of the obsessive work of Jailhouse. The duct tape ball transformed into something else, something like a disco ball.

“We need to wrap it tighter,” Rob Miller laid his strips on the basalt talus, then placed them over the ball, pulling the mass of tape into a spherical shape. “We do not need fluff. We need density.”

I nodded. The blonde tough guy belayed me half of the time I went to the crag. As a good friend, and climbing mentor, he saw the fun I was having bringing the ball together and wanted to join in. Rob wove a cradle for the ball out of the cut end from my climbing rope, and strapped more tape around the ball, suddenly turning the ball of trash into a mace.

With a cord now attached, we were able to attach the ball to our harnessed and climb Soap on a Rope, a popular testpiece in the center of the cave. It was fun. We guessed about the weight of the ball at the base.

“Twenty pounds!” said, Matt Pound.

“Maybe more like ten,” responded Steph Ko.

“It’s at least fifteen,” scoffed Rob.

The climbers passed the ball around the base, each person tugging on it a little, giving it a weighted look, and imagining a scale in their minds
Pete Chasse hefted the ball into the air.

“It is a little heavy,” he said. “You both climbed it with the duct tape ball?”
Rob nodded.

“Even I did it Pete,” I pointed at myself and gave a crooked smile.

“Okay. I’ll try it,” he clipped the ball onto his harness and started up Soap on a Rope. The crowd giggled as the ball pendulumed.

“Oh god! It’s gonna hit someone,” said Matt, worrying about the safety of the others around him. “Watch out Lidija!”
Pete’s belayer carefully stepped out of the way.

“Oh my gawd!” she yelled. “Peete! Peeete! Be careful Peete!”

“It’ll stay on,” responded Rob. “I climbed it twice with the ball.”

“This is classic,” Matt pulled out his phone camera and snapped away as the Jailhouse hardman danced his way up the steep route with the grey disco ball.

With every passing visit, the duct tape ball grew. We stopped fixated on sending our climbing routes. Instead we thought about the steady growth of the duct tape ball. Visiting the crag became less about successful ascents and more about the continual growth of the ball. The ball gained historical value. After Tommy Caldwell completed the second ascent of Tower of Power, the cliff’s hardest rock climb, he contributed to the duct tape ball. Ethan Pringle added his tape after doing some crazy toe hooking bat hangs. The duct tape ball helped Jailhouse become a fun and silly place. I pranced around the crag showing off the enormity of the duct tape ball, swinging it over my head, and hoping that everyone was contributing. The ball was almost ready for the sequins and glitter.

“We need to hang it,” Rob, the blonde tough guy, grabbed a bit of thin cord and some nuts from Coiler’s tiny wood shop at the farm we stayed at in nearby on Chinese Camp.

“We should make it a disco ball,” I said.

“Let’s hang it while we have the time.” The veins in Rob’s forehead protruded.

“I am not sure when I am coming back.”

. For the duct tape ball to be more than a pile of trash hanging from the cliff, there would have to be a little more creativity and a little more effort. Sparkles, sequins, and glue needed to be brought to the crag and a small mess needed to be made and cleaned. For it to be truly worthy, would require effort. With some self doubt, I acquiesced and gave up my project to a more demanding man.

Rob climbed high onto the wall, clipped into a bolt, then reached over and girth hitched the ball to a 3/8” stud between Alcatraz and Cell Block. The ball dangled ominously in a small alcove of steep basalt.

“It does look like a piece of trash” Karl, a clowning local asked. “Are you sure it’s well placed?”

“Well,” I responded, “there’s a better chance of the start to a popular 5.13- falling off then the ball hitting someone. Plus there’s history.”

“If the ball is well attached and not just shoestring that is cool. We want the basalt ballast ball to be solid if it’s going to keystone the wall together.”

I smiled and reiterated the diligence Rob had applied in fixing it to the wall.

“Okay,” Karl said. “I guess I do like the idea of Rob climbing up there to hang his duct tape.”

“What’s that?” A group of hikers came to the cliff and noticed the ball right away.

To the casual observer, the duct tape ball obviously had a purpose, or at the least a story. The hanging grey spore, appeared more like a trashy trophy then a sparkling disco ball. Obviously, there was history there but it was not the best kind. In the whirlwind of the creation, I had neglected my own needs and desires. I neglected to stay true to myself, I neglected to remember that my favorite color is shiny, and I had to give up reality for my imagination.

Eventually, Mikey Chaffin, a Bay area nurse, climbed to the upper reaches of the cave, swung over, and unclipped the ball. I ran into him in the darkness of Camp 4 after he removed the ball.

“I almost died!” he said. “I swung around and clipped into the ball. I almost took myself down with it,” He put his arm around my shoulder. “I hope you do not mind that it was taken down but some random hikers asked about it.”

Removing the ball helped some of the obsessed climbers at the crag. For them it swung about ominously, hanging over their heads, and preventing them from sending their projects. They gave the duct tape ball a power over them so the ball’s removal was cathartic, they were able to do a little better on their projects because the curse was removed. Rob felt angry to see the symbol of his hard work removed. The ball had given him purpose a reason to return when he could climb no better, it gave him a reason to return to the Jailhouse when he saw no progress on his climbing projects. The idea to keystone the crag worked initially but then it all fell apart.

For a few days, as the herons fished, as the swallows rushed by, as the vultures lurked above the jail, and as the hummingbirds buzzed, the duct tape ball swung in that high corner. Whenever the light hit it, I saw a disco ball.

My Dancing Shoes

2009-01-08T13:27:00.000-08:00

Enjoy!

Life of A 23 Year Old Baby

2008-12-30T11:08:00.000-08:00

Imagine a world where others fulfill all your desires. They feed you. They dress you. They even wipe your ass. I was there and let me tell you- it was miserable.

I laid prone as the world took care of me. I slept at the Desert Springs Memorial Hospital, the closest medical facility to Joshua Tree National Park, where I fell a hundred feet climbing without a rope. I spent the first few weeks in a semi-comatose state, sedated by drugs. The hallucinations of my subconscious entertained me. A sequin suited ice skater sashayed towards me delivering me my dinner of crackers, my aunt sat in a casino wooing Sammy Davis Jr., and my immobile body rested on a dock, watching the boats come into harbor, and waiting for someone to move me with the other cargo.

When I finally came to, I wanted to go back. The ice skater never put a tube in my penis, but the doctors did. They spoke stoically when they discussed the operations- the damage to my occipital lobe, the vena cavity filter, the compound fracture of my ulna- I never understood what they had done. Arthur Clarke wrote, "Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic."

I was Frankenstein’s monster, confused, alone, and sewn back together wrong. I tore the IV out of my arms. I did not want to be there. What did the doctors do to me? Why was I there? I wanted to get out of bed, pull on my jeans, and crawl to the base of El Cap. My identical twin brother held me down and a nurse sedated me while I called her a cunt.

Eventually, I calmed. The thick calluses of my hand were peeling away, I was losing what identified me as a climber. I had shed twenty pounds off my thin, fit body. The nerves in my right foot had been destroyed and my foot hung sadly. Long rods held my back and ankle together. Pins cemented my elbow. My body was a jigsaw puzzle of welded metal. It hurt.

A constant stream of friends, family, and climbers visited; they wanted to make me feel better. I did my best not to spill my urinal on the bed. An ex-girlfriend held my hand, and watched me puke in a napkin. John Long, the climbing legend, visited. A notable encounter only in that he was a regular guy who wanted to talk about his family. He gave me some meditation tapes that helped him recover from some of his injuries. A Yosemite climbing friend, Sanam, brought Lisa Rand's climbing movie Hit List. Before she left, she did the sweetest thing. She brought her lips close to my cheek and kissed me. I did not wash my face for a week. I was immobile in a bed; I could not clean my face if I wanted to. Other visitors came and sat awkwardly. They never knew what to say or do so I put the twenty minute Hit List on repeat. Eventually, my twin- my most consistent visitor- complained.

“I have never been to Black Mountain. I have never been to Bishop. I have never even been to Yosemite,” Matt told me. “And I still know all the moves to that dumb Thriller problem.” For him, there was nothing different about me.

At a stroke and spinal care facility, my roommate was a former Los Gatos school district super-indent named John. His wife came in to take care of him after his stroke. Most of the time she was nice but sometimes she yelled. He was a sixty-year-old infant, a former man who had become helpless overnight. His wife struggled with John’s transformation to infancy more than he did. He wore a diaper and the room often smelt like shit. One night, John left his bed and wandered around the room, mumbling about the bathroom. Unable to find the door to the toilet, he came closer and closer to my bed. My biggest fear in life is that someone is going to shit on me and I will not be able to do anything about it.

“John, the bathroom’s over in the corner,” I wanted to help him. Give him some direction. He ignored me.

I stabbed the red button on the white caller, trying desperately to call the nurse. My nightmares were coming true. I was paralyzed, I could not get out of bed, and John was going to crap on me. The nurse came in as John stood at the foot of my bed. Later, I learned to laugh about it.

After a few more weeks of laying in bed, worrying that John was going to shit on my chest, I was transported to a physical rehabilitation center where I would learn to walk. My first physical therapy session, I stood. Seven seconds passed on the watch. It was awesome. I wanted to put it on my 8a card. I sat, rested, and then tried again. My legs wobbled precariously at five seconds. I felt uncertain at six. Was I going to fall? I bore down and fought through the crux of it, watching the clock tick off a long fifteen seconds. I onsighted the extension. The technology of the fusions was magic. Later, I tried to brag to my twin. Matt sat in my hospital room playing Fable on my Xbox-a gift from my oldest brother, Chris, a dorky guy who loves video games. As I sprayed about how hard it was, how exciting it was, how it made me feel like I was climbing again, he looked at me and asked, "How do I get the combat multiplier up for my hero?"

My parents had six children. Their first came when they were barely old enough to take care of themselves. They divorced when my youngest brother was 10. My father needed a break from the overwhelming amount of work. He needed to work on himself. He still barely had enough money to fly out and visit. My mother spent a majority of her savings on the transportations costs of moving me from a hospital near Joshua Tree to a stroke center near my home of Santa Cruz. She sat by my bedside praying for me fanatically. I had spent my last bit of savings to go climbing in Joshua Tree for winter break. The majority of the hospital bills were being paid for through the mandatory insurance I had as a University of California. I could barely stand up, working was out of the question. Going back to school in Santa Cruz was my only option for fiscal support; I needed the financial aid.

My occupational therapist explained the importance of maintaining neutral spine precautions to me. "You have to keep your back straight at all times. Your knee can not bend to ninety degrees. That means no stairs."

So what? I could never scramble around in the boulders. I shrugged. Lifting my feet high over the talus always annoyed me anyway. He droned on about the correct way to move my body and how to deal with my physical handicaps.
"I do not know how you are going to ride the bus," he said.

What was he telling me? How would I get to campus?

"I have to go to school," I said. For the first time since I fell, I cried. How could I take care of myself without financial aid? He kicked my only crutch.

"You know, you can still have sex." He said meekly. "I can explain how to do it while maintaining neutral spin precautions."

I shuffled my ass to the side of the hospital bed, tentatively swiveled my hips, and fell into my wheel chair. I wheeled my way back to my hospital room and stared out the window, dreaming I was climbing.

I stood on the sidewalk of Highway 1 on Mission Street in Santa Cruz. A few days earlier I had been walking along the same road wearing a new t-shirt. A friend had ironed on a picture of a walker and a caption reading, “Walkers are Irresistible.” A random girl drove by and waved at me. I felt tough. So I stood on the sidewalk again. Both the northbound and southbound cars sat at a stop light a quarter of a mile away. I had two minutes. I prayed that the magic in my body would make me move like lightning. I put my walker down off the curb, shuffled my right foot forward, weighted it, and matched it to my left. Then I advanced the walker again, shuffling, and matching feet a thousand times. As the cars barreled towards me, I focused on the repetitive motion, and climbed El Cap in a day.

Slowly, very, very slowly, I learned how to walk without assistance. After more surgeries and more physical therapy, I shrugged off most of my handicaps. 381 days after my fall, I climbed again. My life as a 23-year-old baby sucked. People always ask me what I learned. It annoys me because the experience merely reiterated things I already knew about myself.

I want my independence. I want to do things for myself. I have a hard time asking people for help. The hardest part of the whole experience was dealing with those basic things. This was a huge cry for help. Some days I feel like it is unanswered. On the better days it feels like I am answering it myself.

Cedar's Kiss

2008-12-26T00:29:00.000-08:00

I am not much of a rock climber. If I have any notoriety in the climbing world it is because of my monstrous failures. But this is not a story about a failure. This is a story about Cedar’s kiss.

Thomasina and I met five years ago in Squamish. We did not talk much. I borrowed her Rubik’s cube for a few weeks and returned it with slightly peeled stickers. I offered to buy her a new one but she said she did not mind. I still feel bad about it.

A few summers later, I was back in Squamish. Thomasina was pregnant and was hanging out more than she was rock climbing. As I biked from the grocery store to the library, I saw Thomasina kicking the curb near the bus stop. I stopped to see how she was doing.
Thomasina was worried. She needed 600 hours to receive maternity benefits and had only 130. The baby’s father was not helpful. She kicked the dandelions that were growing through the concrete of the sidewalk.
“I tried to call him. The answering machine was in French. It takes so much courage just to call.”
I looked for the Greyhound. I did not want her to be late to meet with her midwife in Vancouver. I did not know what to say or do so I kept listening.
“Why do men stick their dicks in you and leave?” she asked.
Thomasina broke my heart. Was I an asshole man too? Had I done that to women? I wanted to cry. Instead, I kept listening. After half an hour her breathing relaxed, the stream of tears stopped, and Thomasina calmed. The bus arrived and I hugged her.
“Thanks, James,” she told me. I was not sure what I done but I smiled anyway.
“Anytime Thomo.” I watched her board the bus and waited until she had started down the road to Vancouver before I returned to my bike and headed to the library.

Two years later, Thomasina grabbed the perfect granite crimps of the Camp 4 classic Thriller. She bore down, pulling herself through the moves of the twenty-foot Yosemite boulder problem. I made a few meager attempts at the climb but I was barely able to get off the ground, I gave up and paid more attention to the little girl running around.

Cedar was bored. She had spent an enormous amount of time in the boulders during her two young years. She summered in Squamish, hanging out below the Chief. She had been to Hueco and just returned from a long trip to Bishop. Watching people climb was getting old already. I took her little hand, told Thomasina we were going for a walk, and we headed down the trail.
A hundred feet away was a puddle. Cedar wanted to throw the stick in the puddle. So we did. I tried to keep her pants from getting too wet and staying out of the water too much. It was fun. She was really independent and at times hard to direct. I followed her moves and kept playing her game until she got tired of throwing the stick in the water.

Eventually we wandered over towards the trail. She wanted to throw some more sticks. I chased after them walking like Charlie Chaplain, the little tramp. I would get the stick, try and pick it up, and then kick it. Whoops! How could I ever pick up the stick? Cedar loved it. Her face cracked open and she screamed with laughter. I had never made a girl so happy before.
We started to her to her home, the minivan she shared with Thomasina. As we walked back and forth from the car Cedar looked at me. She waved her hand back and forth. This was her sign language telling me she needed to use the bathroom. I did not know what to do. This little girl needed me to take her pants off and hold her while she peed. Fuck. I started epicing.

“Let’s go back to your mom,” I said.

Cedar ignored me and grabbed the strap to her overalls, trying to take them off.

“Let’s go back to your mom,” I repeated. I did not want to force her and bring her but it was not working.
That’s when she peed herself. I fucked up.

I desperately wanted to make things right with Cedar. When she needed me, I failed her. I was just another irresponsible man.

“Do you want to go back to your mom now?” I asked her.

Cedar’s deep brown eyes stared at me. I picked her up and carried her towards Thriller.

“I am sorry, Cedar. I am so sorry.” I did not know what to say. I was a complete fuck-up. I needed affirmation that things would be all right. “Can I have a kiss Cedar? Please?”

Cedar stared ahead, looking towards the boulders for Thomasina. When we reached the base, a dozen other people had shown up below to watch. I handed the wet Cedar to Thomasina. As the little girl moved from my arms to her mother’s, she turned her head, looked at me, and pressed her lips on my cheek. I melted. It was the sweetest kiss ever.

And that’s the story of Cedar’s kiss.

My Favorite Scar

2008-12-22T13:10:00.001-08:00

I have a lot of scars. There are suture marks on my left ankle. My shins are dotted with old wounds from falling above the crux on overhanging routes. A small line runs along my groin from a vena cavity filter. There are two scars layered on my left elbow from a compound fracture. Like the twelve-inch line on my back, most of my scars have to do with rock climbing. My favorite scar happened when I fell off my bike.

I pedaled down the Squamish Chief’s parking lot, feeling good. I had just sent my boulder problem project and I could rest a day before heading back to California. I balanced on my bike, taking my hands off the handlebars, and adjusting my backpack. That is when I hit a speed bump. I flew over the handlebars. My face met the pavement in a very intense kiss. The North Face sunglasses I wore smashed into my cheek and split my face open. When I stood, there was a hole in the shoulder of my shirt, and ta bleeding gash on my face. People approached me.

“I am okay,” I said. I thought of Monty Python, “It’s only a flesh wound.”
Someone handed me a roll of climbing tape and a bit of tissue. I bandaged my face together.

“You are going to need stitches for sure.” Another passerby good Samitarian said. I groaned. I knew that Canada had universal health care but I was an American and dealing with the bureaucracy of the hospital in a foreign country worried me. I wondered if I could get some help from climbers.

Noah had just finished his residency in emergency medicine and wanted to go bouldering before he got board certified. Siemay was working temporarily in an internal medicine office. She had climbed well in Squamish the summer after her residency ta few years earlier, so the two packed their dog and crash pads. They drove their fifth wheel trailer to Squamish and parked it for a few weeks. Holding my hand to my cheek, I found the couple in the granite boulders below the Chief.

“Uh…” I watched Noah walk down from the top of a difficult boulder problem. “Umm…”

Fuck, I have never known what to say when I need help.

“What happened to your cheek James?” Siemay asked.

“I fell off my bike.” I pulled the gooey bandage off and showed the big wound. “Check it out.”

Noah walked up, and examined it. “Hmm. Looks like you might need a couple of stitches. We are going to finish bouldering then you can come by the trailer. We will stitch you up.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Yeah, stop by around seven. As long as the wound does not sit for more than twelve hours, I can stitch it up.” I smiled and Noah went back to bouldering.

I bounced down from the boulders elated to be getting stitches from a climbing doctor. I grabbed my bike, straightened the handlebars, and rode back to my camp, a small tent I had set up in the woods behind the recreational center.

At seven o’clock, I stood at the door to Noah and Siemay’s fifth wheel trailer. I gave a tentative and wimpy knock.

“Come in,” Siemay said. I opened the door, letting the warm smell of rice drift into the summer air. “I am just cooking dinner. Noah is in the bedroom.”

“Noah. Noah!” She called. “James needs stitches.”

Noah stumbled out of the bedroom. His pants were covered in chalk.
“Let me wash my hands.” Noah stepped around Siemay to the sink. He scrubbed his hands with soap for thirty seconds, rinsed them, and dried them on paper towels. Moving to the dining room table he pulled put on a pair of latex gloves, and examined a set of syringes on the table. After squirting fluid out of one of the syringes, he told me to lay down on the floor.

“This is for the pain. I am going to make your cheek numb so that you will not feel the stitches.” Noah bent over me and slid the needle into my face, slowly releasing the fluid. “Now, we wait for a minute.”

I felt a tingling sensation in my cheek. Arthur Clarke wrote, “Any sufficiently advance technology is indistinguishable from magic.” That’s what happened in the little RV. Magic.

“How’s the rice coming?” Noah asked.

“Fine,” Siemay stirred the pot and continued chopping vegetables. “What sort of thread do we have to stitch him up with?”

“I can’t open the closet door,” Noah held his hands in the air and waved his gloves. “Can you get it?”

Siemay walked over, sorted through the closet, and grabbed some thread. “This is all we got.”

Noah groaned and looked at me. “This thread is bigger than what I would normally use. You are going to have a scar.”

I shrugged. I was happy just to get stitches. Who care’s about scars?

“That’s okay,“ I said.

Noah put a needle through my face, pulled the thread, and stitched me back together. There were six stitches when he was done. My eye was black and blue. I looked like I had just gotten in a bar fight; the pavement had been pretty mean to me.

“Okay,” there you go.

“Thank you so much,” I smiled. I was nervous. They had already given me a lot and I did not have any money or really anything to give in return. “I do not know how to repay you.”

“Dinner’s ready,” Siemay finished the meal. “Here’s a plate James. You can sit down over there.”

“Pull the stitches out in two weeks,” Noah filled his plate with rice and corn and peppers and chicken. “It will be easy. Just give them a little tug while you look in the bathroom mirror.”

And then I ate. Noah, the emergency room doctor, had dealt with my wound and then Siemay, the internal medicine doctor, fed me dinner. I have met hundreds of doctors because of my reckless climbing: neurologists, orthopedic surgeons, physicians, trauma doctors…but these two were the best.

Years later, I was sitting in the house behind the Yosemite medical clinic playing poker with Noah, Siemay, and a few other boulderers. Noah was staring at me. I thought he was trying to figure out how many aces I had in my sleeve. He opened his mouth and said, “That scar is a little big.”

I kept my poker face and never told him that the half moon below my eye is my favorite scar.

The Pains of the Quaint Life

2008-12-20T18:01:00.000-08:00

------I should revisit this topic as it has been an interesting one to me lately check out this story-----

For my mother, religion was the only escape from alcoholic parents, a shotgun wedding, and a banal life. She searched feverishly for her lottery ticket to heaven in between Genesis and Revelations but Christianity merely cemented my mother, thoroughly mixing her up and permanently setting her in Pentecostal beliefs. She herded my siblings and I into a small Vermont church to have us learn the value of Jesus’ teachings.

The parishioners of Living Water Assembly of God congregated in the Addison County town hall every Sunday morning. The weathered colonial building sat in the middle of the metropolis of Orwell, a village of a thousand inhabitants and a small country store. Services were held upstairs amid rows of metal folding chairs and oversized windows, which allowed the humming fluorescent lights to be kept off during the long days of summer. The seats were filled with farmers wearing worn jeans and oversized belt buckles while the wives wore soft flowered dresses and wrapped thin arms around their men. They stood when the preacher began the service with a prayer and fell back to their seats when he began his sermon.

“Salvation.” The preacher was a slight man with a copper beard and a balding head. He spoke softly into a microphone so that the congregation could barely hear him above the shuffle of church bulletins and crying babies. “Salvation is our reward for attending to the will of God. When we accept the Lord into our lives, when Jesus becomes our savior, our guiding light, we are granted true wealth. Please open your Bibles to Romans 6:23.”

Chairs scraped against the wooden floors as husbands whispered silent questions to their wives regarding the location of the family Bible. In the back row, Nick, my youngest brother ripped the church bulletin in half and began making a paper crane. The fields behind the windows held little interest and I was forced to listen to the preacher.

“Let us read. ‘The Wage of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.’ Romans 6:23. This is the gift granted to us when we accept Jesus; we will have everlasting life and glory in God. Now, by no means is salvation easily obtained. Great gifts require great sacrifice. The Lord will test you at times.”

Heads nodded among the congregation. The farmers were no strangers to floods, droughts, and poverty. Fall’s early rain had caused much of the alfalfa to be baled wet. The hay grew mold over the winter and the warm days of spring caused many of the bales to smolder. It was ruined for feed. A dry summer was anticipated and many families had already eaten through their stores of frozen corn and peas. Though many were hungry, the coffers of the church were never fallow. Generosity is not a plight of the poor.

“Just as the Lord tested Job, He will surely test you, but recall Psalm 37:24; ‘Though he stumbles, he will not fall, for the Lord upholds him with his hand.’ During our times of famine and pain we must be steadfast in our faith in Jesus. Only through Him will we receive salvation.

The sound of spit hitting the microphone echoed through the room as he stuttered out the word salvation. My brother flapped the wings of his paper crane. A lighthouse decorated the tiny bird. My mother looked at us, hoping that we were listening. Her own salvation depended on that of her children. She lived through us. This would be one of many sermons.

Outside a honey truck passed, its side coated with manure. The truck headed for a nearby field to fertilize the soil. Some of the farmers were still planting even this late in the season. In Vermont, everyone sows barren ground.

My Father's Gift

2008-12-19T13:20:00.000-08:00

My Father’s Gift

It came in a small envelope delivered to my brother’s house in Berkeley. I had been sleeping in Matt’s laundry room, bouncing at a nearby bar, and writing. The letter was two weeks late for my birthday, a few days short of my four year anniversary of falling in Joshua Tree, and a week and a half early for Christmas. I tore the envelop open. Inside was a small, plain, lined, index card with my Father’s scrawl on it.

“Guys: Hope you like this fancy card. You can hang it up. Love, Dad.”

Behind the card were two checks, one for my brother and one for me. The checks were for a hundred dollars each, a colossal amount of money for my constantly broke father to be giving.

“Thanks for the gift. The best part is the card!” I texted him. I love my father’s wit. The joke meant more to me than the money.

“I was going to wrap it but I did not have a Walmart bag,” my father wrote in return.

“Ha!” I wrote back. I did not want him to hide behind a joke so I wrote, “The first part was funny. No need to keep going with the joke- it ruins the sentiment. Thanks again.”

I finished my text with strong words, “Love you.”

The Pen15 Club

2008-12-19T01:23:00.000-08:00

We were bouldering on the tall, sharp, granite blobs of the Pollen Grains when he walked up. He wore a t-shirt with an ornate dragon, his hair was cut freshly in a handsome way, and his tan pants matched his brown shirt. He walked past Charlie, Dominick and I, and strode towards Jessica; he probably saw her bright orange hair.

"Hi," he said with the confidence of an old friend. I assumed he knew her but my head tilted looking at him. He blended in too well and my spider senses tingled.

Jessica smiled. She had left the small town of Leavenworth for a month long road trip. In between Washington and Bishop she had dyed her hair bright orange. By the end of the trip her body ached and she was not climbing well. She had met a boy on the trip and had gotten worked over.

“He played games with me,” Jessica told me. Her turmoil went beyond just her body. Jessica often dreamt of Lynn Hill. Usually Lynn gave her things but lately the strong climber woman had been very mean. Jessica had a couple more vacation days before she returned to work so she came to Bishop to rest and recoup before heading home to Washington. She needed to be around a few friends.

Jessica said returned his greeting and went back to climbing with me. We tossed around on the boulders until we were worked and then we headed over to watch join Dominick and watch Charlie on his project.

Charlie stood under the Spectre boulder, grabbing the holds of the sickness, planking his body, and ripping through the moves. A crowd had gathered.

With all the people around, I wondered if Charlie could really concentrate.

“It’s time for some Jedi training Charlie,” I said.

Charlie tilted his head at me as I grabbed a few small pebbles. As Charlie gripped the beginning holds, I nailed him with a rock.

“Focus Charlie.” I said and I beaned him in the back.

“You’re throwing rocks at me! How am I supposed to focus?” Charlie fell off the problem, furrowed his brow and stared at me.

“I don’t know Charile. There’s all these people around. I am throwing rocks at you. You are trying to climb. Why can’t you focus?” I asked. Charlie tried again and made it a little further before he stalled and got nailed with a rock.

"Shit, there he is again," Dominick said, turning our attention away from Charlie's Jedi training and towards a man surrounded by a group of boulderers.

"Who's that?" I asked.

"The porn star. That's Jared Diamond coming over. He's a nominee for the Adult Film Award's best up and coming actor."

The perfectly kempt Jared strut to the group, nodded at Jessica, and ripped off his shirt. It was the guy who had flirted with Jessica.

“Do you know him?” I quietly asked Jessica.

“I just met him a few minutes ago,” she whispered back.

"A little cold out.” I said loudly. In between burns, Charlie wore his oversized black parka. Dominick paced the base of the boulder to stay warm, and I pulled my red knit cap tight around my ears. “Maybe too cold to be walking around with your shirt off."

"I know,” Jared smiled. “Check out these diamond cutters," he grazed his hand over his erect nipples and stared at Jessica.

I rolled my eyes, wondering if the sleaze ball was gonna start licking his lips and grabbing his crotch too.

Eventually, Charlie stopped making progress and I stopped throwing rocks at him. We headed back to camp and crashed for the evening.

The next day, Charlie, Dominick, and I decided to have some fun with al;l the Buttermilk Boulderers. we started the People Enlightening No-one, PEN, group as a joke. We wrote the group initial's on the backs of our hand along with the our membership number. Dominick was Pen 12. Charlie was Pen 13. I was Pen 14. And we spent the day trying to recruit a 15th member.

At the Buttermilks, we howled like monkeys swimming in bananas. We had three PEN15 victims and it was before noon. It was a mean and immature joke but who said we were grown-up? Besides, it was outlandishly funny. Our momentum for the prank was peaking when the porn star strolled by.

"You should join the PEN club." I blurted as Jarod sashayed towards us.

"What do I have to do to join?" He asked.

"Well, to join the People Enlightening No-one club, you have to be bad ass." I said.

"I am definitely that." Jarod flexed his pectoral muscles so they danced under his overly tight shirt.

"And you have to write PEN on your hand with your recruitment number. I am PEN 14," I showed him my hand.

"I am PEN 13." Charlie thrust out his hand.

"I am PEN 12." Dominick showed his hand.

"You can be our 15th." I said.

Jarod stared for a moment.

"Listen, we're raising money for testicular cancer. If twenty people join our group Charlie is going to donate a hundred dollars to the American Testicular Foundation," Dominick said.

"I want people to know I care about their balls." Jared smiled. "Do not just write it on my hand. Print it real big across my shoulders but be careful. You know what I do for a living?"

I grabbed the pen and I wrote across his back. On everyone else, I had laughed while I wrote. The joke’s punch line came when I started writing. I had tricked them and the writing was a mere formality. This time was different.

"You know what I do for a living right? Make sure to keep it small."

"The ink washes off easily,” I said remembering that he fucked people for a living. The ink stalled coming out of the pen. I scribbled on my on hand and shook the pen to help the ink flow better. As I finished writing PEN, the ink ran out.

“Does someone have another pen?” I asked.

Charlie dashed over with his own pen and I finished writing PEN15 on the porn star’s back.

“There you go,” I said. “I hope you like it.”

Jarod beamed and grabbed his camera so he could see the tattoo we had given him. He tried taking a few pictures of his own back before someone walked over and offered to take a picture of it for him. They snapped the photo and handed the camera.
"Oh,” he stared at the tiny display screen on the camera.

“PENIS. I get it. I knew it all along," he lied. That’s when we started laughing.

Just before dusk, Jessica waited for me in her truck. We were planning on going to watch Charlie try another one of his projects. Charlie needed lots of pads, a bunch of spotters, and obviously, more Jedi training. Jarod swaggered to Jessica’s car.

"I hear you are from Leavenworth." He put his forearm on the open window of her truck. His eyes batted.

"I am waiting for a friend. Are you heading to Charlie's junk show? Maybe I will see you up there." She said, waving him off. She had heard we had labeled him as what he was...a penis.

On Being A Twin

2008-12-16T21:43:00.000-08:00

I needed a job. A few summers ago, I paid for a few dental bills, working as a bouncer at the bar my brother bartends at. ZI stopped by Jupiter's again to look for work. I was sitting at my brother's computer typing when I turned to his bed and told him I was thinking about bouncing Matt scowled at me and huddled deeper underneath his down comforter.

"I do not want you to work there." His face was buried. "I have enough identity issues as it is."

Imagine a world where you are constantly mistaken for someone else. People talk to you like you are an entirely different person for long stretches of time. Sometimes they call me Matt, the Thai kick boxer. Sometimes they call me James, the ladies man. I never know if I am a lover or a fighter. So what should I do? Should I roll with it or should I correct them and identify myself?

Underneath the black cotton of her sequin Bebe shirt, her breasts poked out towards my face, staring lecherously at me. Her knockers scared me. She walked up, grabbed my bicep, and said, "Oh my god! How are you? Isn't the Christmas party awesome?"

Jupiter's annual Christmas party was a large event gathering two other Berkeley area restaurants into one bar off of San Pablo. The bartenders at Albatross mixed and poured free drinks all night while the restaurant employees ate a taco buffet and got really, really, drunk. I knew a few people from bouncing at the bar a few years ago but most of the drunkards were friends of my brother's and not mine as was the case with this chesty girl.

She gave me a hug and I shuddered. Then she pushed the boy she had in tow into my face. "This is my boyfriend." she said.

"Nice to meet you," we shook hands. This was getting annoying. Why the fuck was she talking to me. I wanted to peel my face off. "I am James. Maybe you have met my twin brother, Matt? He's over there." I pointed towards the bathroom. I wanted her to leave me alone.

"Oh my god! You're like not Matt," she chortled. "I am like so sorry and like sort of so embarrassed and all."

This would be the part where I stabbed her in the thigh. If I had a knife and if I was into lying in my stories. But I did not stab her I just said, "That's okay. Nice to meet you. I have to uhh..."

Then I ran to the other side of the room. I am so awkward. I tried to think of what I should have said. I wanted to say something witty, and weird. Something that would have ended the conversation.

"Yeah, I am Matt's brother. My mother went to have an abortion and instead of destroying the fetus, the doctor split it in half. That's why we are twins," I wanted to tell her, "What do you expect-It was the early eighties."

As I stood nursing my beer, cowering behind a table near the women's bathroom I thought," Damn it. I can never think of the right thing to say. Oh well, this time I will be pigeon holed as the socially awkward twin."