***JULY***
Mandela, Blanchard, and Springsteen. This summer I dived into each of their respective autobiographies, and while the lives of a Freedom Fighter, Mountain Guide, and a Rockstar diverge into unique valleys, they shared a common theme: A relentless drive that burned bright with the fuel of passion. They are all self made men, whose catalyst to success was their
desire to succeed, rather than natural talent. What I gathered from each of their memoirs was that they were ordinary people with extraordinary dreams, and an unbreakable spirit. In the spring, before my pilgrimage to live among the limestone giants that only teased me with their beauty from the prairies, I saw an Instagram post. It read, "Be fearless in the pursuit of what sets your soul on fire." These passages inspired me; I had just discovered climbing and decided that surviving simply isn't enough,
I am going to live. As a headstrong teenager whose ego/confidence (mostly ego) had just been inflated by sending 5.12a, I was ready to take on the world. Or at least I thought I was.
Spring went by in a blur. Most weekends were spent climbing during the day, and Jeep sleeping when night fell. It was adventure after adventure and spring faded into exams as the days became longer. I wish I could tell you that I took a break from climbing in order to focus on my studies, and that I did exceedingly well. But I had recently gotten news that I had been offered a job as a parking lot attendant at the Lake Louise Ski Resort, and that infected me with the adventure bug even more. What I can tell you is that one night before one of my exams, my friend Jacky and I did a six pitch 5.10d route in Heart Creek, and we topped out just as the Sun bid us adieu. We spent the next ninety minutes rappelling in the dark. While waiting for one another at the anchors our headlamps were turned off and our minds were lulled into tranquility by the rushing sounds of the creek far below and the dark, silent aura the limestone walls screamed into the night. Each breath felt pure, and in those moments I knew I had made the right call, I was ready for adventure.
I finished my last exams, had a wonderful night with my best friends, and got behind the wheel of the Jeep making a B line west. A mix of anxiousness and excitement filled my eager mind, and it grew as the Lumineers blared through my terrible speakers and I turned off at the Lake Louise exit. I pulled into the Charleston Residence with a screech of my tires. First impressions aren't always everything. From the outside, Charleston looks like a grand log mansion and as I chatted with the housing office I thought I would be living in style this summer. As I lugged my belongings- mostly climbing gear, up the stairs to room 308, my visions of a lush summer were crushed, and new ones of a real, genuine summer emerged.
308 has character. The floors are stained, and lodged between the old stove and a scratched wall was an infamous shotski. It was an old apartment and those thin walls had seen unspeakable things in the decades they'd been up. Nonetheless, it was my house for the next two months, and it truly became a home.
After my first anxious night in my small apartment in an even smaller room, I began to settle in to my summer in the mountains. Attending the parking lot gave me ample time to pick up reading again, and I met travellers from far and wide that truly broadened my perspective of the world and those who call it home. After work, I would go climbing to the crag behind Lake Louise, and for the first few weeks, I would stop at the Fairmont cafe, and grab as much complimentary peanut butter packets as I could fit in my pockets. I had moved to Lake Louise with $50, spent it all on Starbucks and groceries and was too proud to ask for money from my parents. Thus, I learnt a stark but necessary lesson via a diet of strictly KD and Kraft peanut butter, and the odd Nutella packet if I was lucky. Yet, as I walked through the fancy halls of the Fairmont in my ripped pants with a rope on my back, I didn't think about my grumbling stomach, or whether I conformed to the dress code. My mind was on the laughs my friends and I shared and what climbs I would try hard on that evening. I wasn't a tourist walking aimlessly and taking the same photo that everyone else takes, I am a climber. Pouring my entire life into this passion. I found myself on the fringe, and it felt good.
My weekends, which were Mondays to Wednesdays were typically spent in the Casa De Cherokee in Canmore, or climbing somewhere in the Bow Valley. One of these weekends in early July stand out to me as a turning point in climbing, and ultimately my life. Despite a wonderful two days climbing and cliff jumping with my friends, I slept restlessly in the back of my Jeep. It wasn't the idea of sleeping in a car that kept me awake, in fact I never sleep more soundly than I do on a roadside pullout. It was this overwhelming and crippling fear. It was unlike anything I'd ever felt and was a combination of many scares. First, was this unrelenting fear of death, and the idea that climbing was going to kill me. This was catalyzed by the fear that maybe climbing wasn't the way I was supposed to spend my life, and frankly that was terrifying. At this point I had invested so much of myself into climbing that if it wasn't for me I wouldn't know what to do with myself. The next morning I was supposed to drive back to Lake Louise, and meet someone to go climbing. But I couldn't shake these thoughts out of my head and they weighed me down as I made breakfast and contemplated my day. For some time, I had wanted to do a big, easy, solo climb. Something extremely within my ability, but without a rope or a partner and high off the ground. It should be stressed that by no means am I Alex Honnold, and that morning in my jeep behind Save On Foods, I have never been farther from that style of climbing.
I roared the Jeep back on the highway toward Lake Louise, still feeling uneasy. As I tried to think more critically and battled my mind, I realized that this was something I was going to have to face, otherwise it would be torture. Wrestling my plans back and forth, the self fight came to a climax as I signalled off the highway toward Banff at the last moment. My eyes, but perhaps not yet my dwindling mind, were set on the Rundlehorn.
The Rundlehorn is by no means extreme, it is typically done in eleven ropelengths, and is around 250 metres of climbing. While those are big statistics, it only goes at 5.5, which while perhaps still climbing slab and vertical rock, all of the holds are very positive or the angle is very low. Continuously, I told myself that it would be very difficult to fall so long as I kept my head screwed on tight, and the drive from the highway up to Bow Falls was no more than five minutes, but it felt endless. My palms were sweating when I parked, grabbed my gear and tried not to overthink anything on the short approach. I had to bring the rope up to rappel, and thus it was coiled around my shoulders. My thoughts were focused on the irony of bringing gear to make climbing relatively safe, but making the choice not to use it. All in the name of adventure and personal growth.
My mind was racing, and I honestly cannot recall getting to the base of the climb very well because my thoughts were scattered and I simply moved my legs and focused on not turning around and bitching out of the climb. "
This is easy, this is what you need. You are doing this." Soon my Birkenstocks were off and my purple climbing shoes were donned. I plunged my nervous hands into the old toque I turned into a chalk bag and read the duct tape that lined it: "
690%". It is an immature joke that evolved into a mantra, meaning that in order to achieve great things, I have to put 690% of myself into it. With one deep breath, I began up the easy slab, and the simple moves began to flow and culminate into a dance that one does alone but feels the entire world sway with them. Quickly, I was up the first four slab pitches and was feeling good. There was another party on the route and there company was comforting. Barbara and Dallas were two go-getter pensioners from Florida that took up climbing as a retirement activity. They travel around North America following the good weather and visiting family. It was an inspiring atmosphere and before I passed them and continued on my way, Dallas looked down at the Fairmont golf course far below us and exclaimed words that made me grin and kicked me in the ass: "Society says that folks our age should be down there, that looks fucking boring!" As I left the ledge that separates the bottom slab from the more vertical climbing, I heard Barbara scold him for his language and laughed, thinking of my own grandparents bickering.
My mind was at ease as I continued up the face, until I started to notice that I hadn't seen any bolts for the roped climbers in awhile. I stopped on a sturdy, small ledge and looked around. My heart sunk when 15 feet to my right I saw a bolt, and above of my current ledge the terrain looked a lot more technical than 5.5. I had gotten slightly off route, and as I looked down at my now exposed position, I realized the consequences could be quite dire. I had made a stupid mistake, and was faced head to head with my unearthed fear of death. At first, I crumpled, numb with fear despite still being well within my grade of climbing. "
This is what you wanted, isn't it?" I thought to myself. It wasn't what I wanted, but it was what I needed and I reminded myself that if I wanted to be an alpinist I would find myself in situations far more severe than the one I was currently in. After a few minutes, I calmed myself down, looked at the rock above me, and before I could convince myself otherwise, began to move. The first few moves were shaky with my mind clearly elsewhere. With my legs shaking, I spotted a ledge for my hands. Without thinking, I extended my feet onto my tip toes, locked off with my right hand and reached for the hold with my left. The anxiety that had left me aimlessly lost in the past few days dissipated as my hand stuck to the hold. It wasn't so hard of a move as much as it was committing, and this time when I looked at the Bow River 350 feet below, I laughed with an inexplicable euphoria. My questions had been answered and my metaphorical chains were the only thing that flew off Mt. Rundle that day.
***AUGUST***
One of the constants of my summer was "Jason Lives", a hard 5.12d sport route at the crag in Lake Louise. I've lost count of how many times I've touched each hold, or had my foot pop off the terrible smear at the crux. This was not my summer to send the route, but I still gained so much from getting on it. Friendships were made, and others were strengthened simply because of the time spent belaying and climbing on that route. Also, I now understand how to try hard, and give 690% of mysef to something I care about. That alone, is indispensable, and is the reason I walked away from that route with no regrets. Though getting on the odd multipitch or alpine route in July, most of my time was spent at the crag, and as July flopped into August and the first few weeks went by I found myself craving the thing that brought me to climbing in the first place: adventure.
It hurt me to see my last two paycheques go away with the click of a button, and I daunted the two weeks of peanut butter that I knew was to follow. But buying traditional climbing gear, or a trad rack, was the best decision I ever made. Trad climbing is where the leader places camming devices or wedge shaped "nuts" into cracks and constrictions in the rock for protection in the event of a fall, rather than clipping shiny bolts already drilled in. In theory, these will hold but that is not always the case. Trad climbing is more bold, and certainly more scary than sport climbing. Adventure demands uncertainty and at times, traditional climbing can be incredibly uncertain. I was keen when my gear came in the mail and was ready to scare myself. Unfortunately, Chucktown had other plans.
Perhaps the peace pipe was passed to the wrong person, or a cold one was cracked with the convict. I can't tell you how I got mono, but I can tell you that the following week of laying in bed unable to do anything was horrendous. I felt lost without being able to climb, and after being independent and constantly moving it was an empty feeling to be completely dependent on others. I was supposed to go to Squamish with friends, but those plans were Squamashed by my sickness. I grew restless and am grateful that with the help of Tylenol, sleep, and wonderful Registered Nurse and mother Lisa Bailey, I was only out for a week and was back in Lake Louise thriving once more.
With only a few weeks left in the Rockies, I was on a mission to climb as much as possible. In the last two weeks I climbed 13 of 14 days. The push began, starting on my dream route,
Blue Jeans. Blue Jeans is a beast on the south face of Yamnuska, and though I knew it was out of my reach that year, I wanted to get on it and guage it. That day Matt, Dom, and I didn't even make it to the crux pitches at the fault of mine, and it took us- mostly me, around six hours to climb about sixty metres of rock and return back to the ground. Any ego previous climbs had spared me was shattered, and I apologized to my friends millions of times. Looking back, I am grateful for their patience and understanding in the ass kicking both Blue Jeans and the tail end of mono handed to me. I was a bad partner that day, perhaps overselling my ability and certainly putting my friends at risk of being sick. Good friends are hard to come by, and good climbing partners even harder. That day, Matt and Dom taught me what it was to be a good partner and I know it is a lesson I won't soon forget. August had begun with a hearty serving of humble pie.
But I was not disheartened, in fact the opposite. Blue Jeans had thrown gas on the fire and I was keen to improve and get stronger. I reminded myself that this was my first summer climbing outside, and that I had to simply leave it all out there and trust what would happen. I began to climb more traditional (trad/gear) climbs. A dramatic shift in my climbing began on an easy, unremarkable, but beautiful 5.8 trad climb called Imaginary Grace. I felt good with placing gear, and the moves just flowed. Beaming with confidence, I saw a 5.10a trad climb in the guidebook called Manicure Crack. On sport, I warm up on 5.10a, but trad is a totally different game. Clipping bolts is mentally easy, and there's less to think about. But trad climbing is completely on you, you choose when to place gear and when not too. At first it is overwhelming. When we followed the guidebook to the base of the climb, I was surprised to find a short but steep and slimy overhanging corner crack. We looked around for something that looked more friendly, but I told myself that easy isn't always better, and told my partner, Tony, that I was going to climb it. It wasn't pretty, but after a combination of grunting with effort and a constant pleading of my belayer to watch me close should I fall, I made it to the top. I exclaimed down to Tony how alive I felt, and in those moments spent on that route, I became a trad climber.
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| Trying hard. P. Emmett Jerome (@__cannondale__) |
The next few weeks flew by and I climbed as much 5.10 trad as I could and was beginning to feel confident climbing on gear. I made a ticklist of routes that I wanted to do over the next few years, beginning with some 5.11 trad routes and working up to climbing really hard on gear. My goals had completely changed and my roommate Matt reminded me to embrace that, and I couldn't help it. I had never felt more alive in my life, and driven to pursue my dreams. I firmly believed, and firmly do believe that if you have drive, it is only inevitable that your goals are eventually realized. At the top of the ticklist was "Wicked Gravity". It is a 5.11a sport route that I had climbed lots thanks to my friend John, who always warmed up on it. None of the moves are incredibly difficult, and it gets its grade because it tests the endurance in your forearms and hands. With my current ability, it was one of those routes that wasn't easy, but also wasn't hard.
I knew it was climbable using only trad gear because John had done it earlier in the summer. I also knew it was badass, but didn't realize the seriousness of it until one evening when I was climbing it on sport, about halfway up the route John pointed at a flake of rock, and shouted up at me, "that is where you place your last piece!" He knew that I wanted to do it on gear and this fact made me shiver a little bit as I looked up at how far I had until the anchors, and knew that between me and the top was still the hardest part of the route. But my mind was made up. Though at the time I knew I would climb Wicked Gravity on gear eventually, but I figured I wouldn't be ready before the already elderly summer closed its eyes and slipped away.
It was a Saturday night, I had one more night in Lake Louise before returning to Calgary for school. My good friend Jacky was hanging around the Bow Valley for a few days doing some mountaineering and we were keen to climb together for the next two evenings. With night falling quite early now, we had to be choosy about what we got on in order to get the best out of our evening. I suggested to a tired Jacky that he get on Wicked Gravity, but was mostly just asking to warm up on it. He obliged and put me on belay. I brought my trad rack up to check out the gear, so when I did it I would know what to bring and where it goes. Some would argue that this is "poor style", and I see the merit in that. Obviously it is more bold to just figure out the gear as you go, but I soon became enlightened with the fact that there wasn't much gear to figure out; I found three good pieces, including the flake John had told me about, as well as two pieces above it that were quite bad but could be equalized to be okay. Once again, I cruised up the route and didn't find any difficulty. Jacky and I enjoyed a great night of climbing and Jacky boldly learned to trad climb by headlamp. He was psyched, I was psyched, we were all psyched!
I awoke Sunday morning and strolled through work with a mental conviction. A voice in the back of my head told me simply that I was to climb Wicked Gravity on trad that evening. It was an idea I wrestled with right until the moment Jacky's van pulled into Chucktown to pick me up to go climbing. I had climbed it seven times without ever falling or weighting the rope, why would the eighth be different?
"Well, if you fall on the crux, you're not being saved by a bolt and taking a fun fall. Instead, you're probably hitting the ground and traumatizing your friend, idiot." But that wouldn't change the difficulty of the moves, and I slowly realized over the day that the only thing stopping me from climbing it would be my mind and if I let it stop me from doing this, what else would it seize control of?
"You can do this, leave it at that," and I did leave it at that. The first thing I said to Jacky when I got in his van was "I am doing Wicked Gravity on gear tonight." I needed it to be out there and all of a sudden it felt very real. As the van approached Lake Louise, my stomach was filled with butterflies.
Everything was a blur until I was tied in, had the gear I needed on my harness and Jacky had me on belay. We smiled and fist bumped. I chalked up my hands, and drew a chalk smiley face on my arm. I took a breath and started up. It was on.
The first twenty feet are easy, and at about this mark you get to a crack where you place your first piece of gear. I exhaled the anxieties as my red number one cam fit into the crack like a glove and I clipped it into the rope. Jacky shouted, "you're on belay!" On good holds, I shook out the slight pump I was feeling in my forearms, put more chalk on and continued up. The moves flowed, hugging a corner, right hand bumping up the crack where my lifeline was placed, left hand on good holds and feet pushing up on good ledges. After a cross out of the crack and a few moves I came to a small roof and a horizontal crack. I was about fifteen or twenty feet above the number one now, and placed my green point seven five cam into the horizontal crack and clipped it into the rope. Another quick shake, and once again I was on the move, over the small roof with an awkward high foot like I had done so many times before. My right hand worked up good slots, and with the placement of my feet I lunged to the flake hold with my left hand. I plugged the infamous-to-me final good piece, a gold number two, and took a few breaths, shaking out the increasing pump.
"Really watch me here, Jacky!" I yelled to my friend. We had chatted about how if I fell above my last piece, he would have to run as far as he could in order to take slack out of the rope and minimize the possibility of me hitting the ground and ending my life. There wasn't a shred of doubt that Jacky would run across hot coals for me if he had too, and this gave me peace of mind. Some more easy climbing followed, and after a committing move to a good hold, I began to traverse about ten feet on decent holds and good feet that are far apart leaving you in a few splits positions. The end of this traverse is marked by a good flake, where my last two equalized pieces would be. I grabbed them and placed them, but I was shocked at just how bad they were. I remember John telling me you could find gear above the number two, but none would hold a fall. I thought I had outsmarted him, but once again the kid had proved himself a gumby as the one piece, a size double zero was tiny and shifted out of place. I didn't let this get to me until I tried to place the other one, the piece I had brought up was a size too big, and the one that would provide relative safety was sitting in my pack sixty feet or so below me. Despite this, I surprised myself with how calm I remained. I told myself there was nothing I could do but climb to the top and clip the chains. I shook out the ever growing pump on the flake. I was three quarters up the route, my last good piece was halfway up the route and I still had the crux ahead of me. The pump held at bay long enough for me to make one large move from the flake to another really good hold, and I shook out again then started up the crux.
With a "watch me!", I was on my way. My mind was clear as my peripherals saw the blue water of the lake, and Jacky facing away from me ready to run and try to save his friend if need be. This was exactly where I was meant to be. The crux felt beautiful, and my mind was completely present and absent of fear. I shook out on the ledge that I needed to mantle to clip the chains, which were now only four or five feet above me. I heard Jacky yell motivation, and I reminded myself to stay in the zone and not celebrate until the anchors were clipped. Moments like these are difficult to put into words and are unique for everyone. Never in my life did I think I would find tranquility and happiness high on a wall of overhanging quartzite, literally with my life in my hands. Yet, there I was, dancing with death and feeling more alive than I ever had. I mantled the ledge and clipped the chains, and won't repeat the words that I shouted and echoed off the walls surrounding Lake Louise. The smile would not leave my face even when Jacky lowered me to the ground. We hugged and I belayed him and my friend Sebastian (my Patagonian neighbour who met us up there and wanted to give climbing a shot) for the rest of the evening, I was full. Full of life and what the future was to hold for me. While it wasn't going to make any headlines or shake the climbing world, it was a massive moment for me. It epitomized the mental growth I had underwent over the past two months, and I proved to myself I was mentally strong enough to climb dangerous routes, and with my drive and passion I knew the strength to climb the hard ones was inevitable. It truly is a beautiful life. As night fell we returned to Chucktown for my final evening in a blaze of glory, and partied the night away.
It was a wonderful summer, and the rollercoaster continues to cumulatively go up. I owe much of this to my own drive and dedication, but ultimately to my friends and family. My parents didn't protest too much at the idea of their seventeen year old son living in Lake Louise and I have to thank them for that. My friends, both new and old lit up my world each day. Christopher McCandless once said that "happiness is only real when shared," and I can't help but feel incredibly grateful to share it with all the legends that were in my life this summer. Once, it was a laugh that didn't need translation with a Chinese family that picked me up hitchhiking. On one weekend, it was the incredible bender I barely survived, pointing the Jeep for Calgary to have one last evening with my friends before they embarked on their own adventures. On a few occasions I saw the familiar smiles of my two dear friends, Miguel and Emmett, as the three of us did more laughing than climbing. Other times, it was my friend Luke and I, getting lost and fending off a packrat before we even got on a climb that totally kicked our asses. On more comfortable occasions, it was my grandma's homemade pie that my roommates and I gorged on. It was the nights spent in Chucktown that started with something wild and ended with discussions of life on the couches of 308, or something less philosophical like watching Cong Island with the rad people of 307. It was the countless belays, volleyball games, laughs and adventures that all culminated into beautiful memories. I left Lake Louise sounding more Australian than Canadian and with a relentless smile and passion for life that burns bright as I write this. What a summer, and what a chapter in this ongoing adventure.
