Thank you, Carl

   

"One of the great contradictions of climbing writing is that the bigger and deeper the experience the more difficult they tend to be to write about." -Marc-Andre Leclerc

   It is interesting that a phrase used to introduce a profound soloing experience resonates deeply with my attempt to do justice to experiences that revolved around friendship. Initially, I didn't even try to write about February 28, 2018. 

   Nine months, and Carl, have passed. 

   I feel an internal obligation to write about the moments that I shared with my friend on that day and many others, but is it possible to do an experience, let alone a person justice with any words? It would be very difficult, for it would contradict the extreme presence the mountains offer; the presence that is the welding flame of the bonds that are forged in the mountains. No words can replace living moments, and it isn't their purpose to attempt to do so. Rather, the duty of words and those who write them is to inspire living moments. The essence of this writing is the same as the essence of life: We must experience it for ourselves, and we must experience it now.

Carl seen here sporting a full pack, and a full heart! 

  I was fortunate enough to experience life with Carl on a number of occasions, one of them being our attempt at climbing "Door of Perception" (DOP) on February 28 of this year. Being a moderate alpine climb, it felt like a great stepping stone for our budding partnership. New to Canmore and yearning for friendship, I had nervously introduced myself to Carl at the local gym after seeing him sharpening his ice tools, and asking "Do you ice climb?" I could see a sarcastic response at the tip of his tongue, and then understanding in his eyes before he simply let out a "yes". It was my first taste of his incredibly outrageous, vile, and against all odds elegant sense of humour. We made plans to climb almost immediately. A wonderful night climb under the dimly lit, pastel painting resembling Three Sisters quickly ensued, and we made plans to climb again almost immediately. 

   DOP was next on the ticklist. MF Doom got us psyched to charge to the base through the frigid air of a clear and dark Canadian Rockies morning. These mornings are a double edged sword. The clear sky gives the cold a feeling of resonation, but those keen enough to get out are rewarded with an uplifting rising sun wearing a cape that sports brilliant hues of pink and orange. Waking up early and doing some walking didn't feel like a worthy cost to pay for such a show, but there we were. 

   We simul solo'd the lower ice of the route. Carl was a man of efficiency; he moved fast in the mountains and though I cannot speak for my dead friend, I believe that it was during these moments of movement in the mountains that he felt an artistic level of peace. I can speak for myself, and I saw it on many occasions. Carl moved with weightless prowess in the winter. Even in dicey moments, you could tell he wanted to be there. There was a precision so strong its only source could be passion. I began to understand it more on the first ice steps of DOP: Carl swung a tool and opened up an ice dam, soaking himself with literal ice water. Hot and unbothered, he didn't even say anything to me until we were both on flat ground. We carried on to the rock pitches. It was bound to be a wild day from the beginning as I mislead us up the wrong corner system. Ten months later, it still stands as one of the scariest pitches of my life. It took well over an hour for me to negotiate the pitch, specifically a traverse out of the corner and off a safety blob of ice. I got to a ledge and a bolted anchor above a different groove and brought Carl up, but not before letting out a few primal, fear-fuelled screams on the last few moves. When Carl arrived at the belay, I immediately received a jab intended on lightening the mood: "Good lead, but what was with all the screaming?" Carl asked, tongue-in-cheek, knowing damn well I was gripped out of my mind. I laughed and exclaimed just how scared I was with big gestures and a rambling story that had to be interrupted so he could make up time for us on the next pitch. He'd later apologize and call himself a dick for the jab over a beer on the porch of The Drake Inn, but it wasn't needed. Being able to laugh at yourself is invaluable, and if you didn't know how, Carl could certainly lend a hand in showing you the way. 

   He did make up the time that I took. It was absurd to watch him move above the horrendous gear the pitch offered. He pulled a bulge virtually unprotected, and no fear-fuelled screams to boot! This is one of those moments that I know can never fully be justified with my words. Carl was simply painting and his art was too personal to be truly captured. I joined him at the next belay- which was a solid boulder between his two legs, a smile, a wink, and the assurance that he would've caught me had I fallen. Good enough for me. I led another pitch up the face and after another marginal belay we became more and more accepting of the fact that we were well off route, and the probability of a mellow retreat was becoming more and more minimal. Topping out was our best option. The corner system ended and Carl led an easy but unprotected traverse off the centre of the face to some scrambling terrain. This didn't last long, and I belayed Carl off a sapling as he scratched his tools over a bulge, then yelled down that the slab above was easy and that I could take him off belay. Reckless? Intelligent. Selfless. Carl knew the sapling wouldn't hold both of our weight, and there was no other gear to be found. He cruised, and then we cruised up a crack system we discovered on the slab. No more type two fun, no more pants being shat (how much more could they handle?), just high quality rock in the 5.8 range. Easy terrain earned, is a lot sweeter than easy terrain given. One of my ice axes fell off my harness at some point, and Carl led one more steep pitch onto the summit block just as the beautiful sunrise's kin greeted us with her own flavour. We descended off the back side in the dark, got lost, found the road, and stumbled back to Carl's year round home and beloved Sprinter Van. It was almost midnight, and the next day was my eighteenth birthday. Carl bought some lovely cheap champagne for the occasion. We sipped it under the stars, incredibly content with our effort and excited to feed the insatiable hunger again. That morning, the dark air felt frigid and the friendly company unsure. That evening, the dark air felt frigid, but the company familiar.

   I knew Carl for less than a year, though relationships built in the mountains are well watered and grow fast. One of the more watering experiences of our friendship was the thirty hours we spent in a Bugaboo blizzard. I watched the Sprinter bounce around through a gentle rain toward the Hound's Tooth, and as we hiked, the rain turned to snow. We were confined to small shelters as the blizzard settled in and took the place of our Bugaboo dreams. The tent sagged with snow during our sole night at Applebee and we concurred that despite the circumstances, this was, indeed, THE LIFE! Carl, the man of efficiency, didn't have much to be efficient about. We sat in a cave for most of a day and spoke about our options, the wonderful women in each our lives, and everything else under the sun that we could not see. To his credit, he did find something to act on efficiently: We would have to bail, and it was decided that we would eat, smoke, and drink as much as we could before then; to save our knees, of course. It was a glorious day of being with a friend in a grand place, not to mention the gluttonous consumption of our heaviest delicacy: M&M's dipped in butter.

Bugaboo cave dwelling

  Though I hope to drink Jameson in a mountain storm again, I know that I'll never again pass that bottle to Carl. That being said, I can raise it to my dear friend. 

   To Carl Hawkins, one of the goofiest bastards to ever grace the Canadian Rockies with their presence. The ghost pooper that all ghost poopers aspire to. A person so committed to this lifestyle that he would winter in Canmore in an unheated van! The guy that went up to the crag with an injured finger just to bring snacks and belay. To Carl Hawkins, my brother of ten months, and my inspiration forever.

 We must experience it for ourselves, and we must experience it now.

Carl Hawkins in the mountains. 

   

     

An Absent Lesson on Presence

An Absent Lesson on Presence

Maybe it was the intense, mind expanding experience fresh in my mind contrasted to the present bar talk that blurred things; the vodka cran in front of me was too full to be the culprit. Trying to dust off the difficulty to focus and absorb, I took in the hodgepodge of wing night around me. My brother looked happy watching football with his friends. It felt good to be in his now rare company, as our lives had geographically diverged and I no longer asked him to drag me along wherever he went. But I couldn’t shake a numbness. “This isn’t depression. I know my depression,” I thought. The extraordinary presence I had felt for the last five days was nowhere to be found; perhaps it was still in the hills, wondering where the soul that it knew intimately had went. Why am I feeling like this? It couldn't be me. I wasn't alienating myself. I just wasn't where I belonged.

I had just come down, both literally and figuratively from my first experience with a big Canadian Rockies rig. Two super stokers- Jacky Soong and Kyle Martino, and I asked the Northeast Buttress of Howse Peak to dance. She obliged. We kept up with the steps! Our hips were moving despite the dance floor crumbling beneath our feet! Our belief, and strong desire to live out our dreams propelled us where skill alone wouldn't cut it: Runouts. Flying microwaves of limestone. Janky anchors. We were quite committed and had settled into a communal understanding of what was expected of each us. The leads were shared with excitement. There was only positivity and action when the rope was passed, and the winds helped to whisk along the smell of fear. My mind thanked my friends Louis and Chris (if you’re reading this, you guys rock!) for pushing me in the Squamish co-op when my body tension paid off and I was able to hold an awkward position after a hold exploded in my hand. High stakes Jenga at its finest!!!!!

This guy fights fires! 

This guy designs buildings! 

The force of the try hards high pointed at the tail end of an exciting traverse off the comfort of the buttress and into the jaws of the peak’s north face. Kyle brought me over to the wild no man’s land of the north face. The night before, sounds of rockfall lulled us to sleep below the glacier. Now, there was no filter. Not the words of another accounting the crumbling power of the notorious range, not the glacier. When it wasn’t booming, it was looming. On the surface, she shouted about killing us, and how foolish we were for asking her to dance. Listening with my ego, I kept hearing these taunts. After much deliberation of the next move and quality of the belay, action was needed. I don’t want to be over dramatic. If the belay was good enough to hold both our body weights I’m sure it would’ve held a fall. I’ll admit shamelessly I was quite scared to move off it. Though it really should, and in time it will- being one thousand feet up a crudely stacked mosaic of small limestone blocks just doesn’t offer the same objective perspective as a comfortable couch. I tiptoed my orange boots on a series of large blocks, and peered around the corner to an onslaught of water gushing down a wide crack system. I returned from my reconnaissance and told Kyle that I thought we should turn around, that it wasn’t our time to climb this route. Kyle agreed though neither of us wanted to officially pull the plug. He got the double belay as he went over to deliberate with Jacky, verbalization of our consensus was soon shouted to me from the buttress. We committed to descending. After another thoroughly quivering traverse, I saw my smiling friends again. We spoke of how there was nothing more we could do; we truly, truly gave it our all and it wasn’t our time. Our time will come, of that I have no doubt. With no entitlement to the summit, it would’ve been foolish to intertwine our desire of standing on it with our definition of success. In these moments I understood a quote regarding one of Voytek Kurtyka’s philosophies of climbing: “He likened the collecting of summits to a profane materialism, where the climber needs to possess the mountains, rather than accept- and be accepted by- their mysteries.”¹

She howled as we slowly left the dance floor, and in this long process I realized her shouts were far from malicious. They were still scary, the way that raw and powerful beauty is. But no longer did I find myself afraid because the mountain was out of my control. Besides, how does one attempt to control a massive piece of rock, and why would one want too? After all, it is the untamable aspect of the mountains that inspire me to find, and harness that same quality within myself. The eastern part of the peak roared with falling rock and snow. Safe, we greeted our insignificance with Borat quotes and raised thumbs.

Jacky Soong photo.

We took turns throwing ropes into the darkness, hoping for a ledge or a tree. The east face glacier we avoided- both out of thoughts of speed and overhead hazard concern, was a bright, silent, white above us. We squeezed moss water into our mouths. Kyle caboosed a rappel off a single piton. Jacky’s pack stumbled off a ledge and into the night. “Off rappel!” became our alarm clocks for anchor naps. Laughter penetrated a once thought impenetrable darkness when Kyle shouted with glee that he found one of Jacky’s crampons in a tree, and then his whole pack on a ledge- or the valley floor, we couldn’t tell. The Rockies held their cloak tightly, and we only knew we were off the mountain when our boots almost stepped into the alpine lake estuary of the glacier’s creek. It was 3am, 23 hours after we had motored toward the glacier with Kyle’s phone blasting Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1. A celebratory tea brew was quickly followed by sleep, and then unspoken suffering between Kyle and I as both our bivi bags failed to keep us dry when a Rockies storm rolled in. I couldn’t help but smile as I shivered through the rest of the aging night. I felt alive. Maybe it’s masochism. Maybe it’s Maybelline.

***

My still soaked bivi bag hangs off my brother’s porch, and I dryly wrestle sleep inside on a couch. The lone vodka cran finds comfort in my dehydrated mind and body.

“This isn’t depression. You know your depression. You’ve just had the adventure of your life. Your brother just did your laundry! How can you be depressed? You just aren’t where you’re supposed to be.”²

Something under those lines went through my head again and again. My sleep was fitful. Once I woke in anticipation for an alpine start alarm. Another time I woke and was confused not to see a painting from my partner that hangs on the roof of my minivan. I felt guilty, and lost. Guilty because I felt like this in the hospitality of my brother. Guilty because I didn’t feel like I was honouring my time spent in the mountains. Mostly though I felt lost. Lost in this quite straightforward position.

Fifteen hours earlier, Jacky and I were alone on the Fay Glacier. Moraine Lake and its $105.00/hour canoe rentals were no more than a kilometre or two away. The Neil Colgan Hut was no more than four hundred metres the opposite way. Our last interaction with another living thing was when a kind guide staying at the hut sent us off into the storm with an encouraging tap of his ice axe and a “you boys got this.” Yeah! We do! I was spitting at the ground ahead of me in order to get a sense of definition of the terrain. I asked Jacky to make sure I was walking in a relatively straight line as I lead us into the unknown. It was a wild exercise of hope. We revelled in our fears being faced, and the absolute physical representation of adventure that was each step forward.

“It’s just you and me out here buddy!!!!” Jacky exclaimed. I couldn’t see it very well, but I could feel his stoke through the rope, and I know he could feel mine. It was the only electricity in this snow storm.

Once, we both partially broke through into the quiet and ancient world below us; its remoteness magnified by the glacial blue of its gates being the only contrast to the rest of our immediate whiteout environment. Hope made the snow bridges stronger, and eventually the clouds broke to reveal their work. The storm left the Valley of the Ten Peaks dusted with snow, more concentrated at the peaks and drifting off into lower elevations. It was a single stroke of a paintbrush, where the brush lost its fuel but not its might as it graced the canvas. We stood in silence, and then whooped to the world. It was beautiful.

The clouds that cleared

In that basement, and the ten hour drive to Squamish that followed, I remained lost. I wasn’t able to figure out the ingredient that made one lost and potentially dire situation incredibly full of joy, and how in the absence of said ingredient, a similar situation left me mentally stagnant with my tail between my legs. All I could compute was that I was unable to feel present, and therefore wasn’t in the right situation. As repeated, both in my mind and in this piece: You just aren’t where you’re supposed to be.

Of course, this theory crashed and burned exactly where I “should’ve” been. I had just been apart of something beautiful: My friend Mike blended finesse and effort into a magnificent onsight(!!!!) of the beautiful My Little Pony- a beautiful roof crack split like a structural weakness in a castle atop the Cheakamus Valley. Badass people do badass things. It was my go, and I felt a high from the energy Mike emitted. I tried to use it to shake the fog that was seeming to settle in for the long run as I started up, and sort of did for a few moves. But the culmination of my aimlessness was upon me. It jumped on my back, too heavy to bear. I completely froze on the route. No part of me wanted to be where I was. It was if a force was trying to suffocate any feeling I’d ever had. Climbing was no longer a refuge from this occasional feeling. I didn’t want to climb; a scary thought for someone who has devoted their life to climbing rocks. I didn’t want to do anything; a scary thought for a human being. This lack of presence led to a gnarly fall adjusting a cam, which miraculously held. In those moments hanging on the rope, feeling heavier than I’d ever felt, looking down at my friend who so genuinely wanted me to succeed, I began to put the pieces together. I began to listen to what the world was trying to teach me. I’ve been schooled many times by the mountains. This time, it was their absence that lectured, and made me more untamed from myself. With my hypothesis on location being the problem now thwarted, there was one place left to look that my ego had kept from eyes: within.

I couldn’t blame my lack of presence on the external present. No amount of joy can be absorbed by a closed mind and a choked soul. It begins with something that no outside force can control: Effort, when effort is not easy. Effort when your mind tries to shout over your soul that you cannot, and should not. I tried to harness this, and understand the mandatory urgency to do so. If I did not then, then when? I pulled back on, and tried to pry off the squeezing hands my mind had wrapped around my soul. I screamed, and screamed, and wanted to hold on. Synthesized effort soon evolved into organic effort. I eventually could no longer hold the pull up and fell to a lifting fog and a happy friend. I asked Mike to lower me, hugged him, congratulated him, and thanked him again and again for pushing me in the right direction when I couldn’t see it myself.

Mike took my thanks humbly, simply shrugging, “I knew if you didn’t go for it you’d kick yourself.”

Depression is a passing cloud. A passing cloud. We must find it within ourselves to believe in the wind that will push the cloud, and understand that no external force can produce it. No place. No people. It can be cultivated without, but must originate within. When it can only be synthesized, then synthesize it. It is the wind. It is the key ingredient. It is the best of things.

Perpetual stoke! Thanks to Jacky Soong for the awesome friendship and photos :)

It is hope.

The grass is as green as you want it to be.

1 From Bernadette McDonald’s Freedom Climbers

2 Depression is different for everyone. Everyone I have spoken with about the subject has felt it in their own way. Personally, it has nothing to do with sadness, and more with a episodic inability to feel. The feeling- or lack thereof, is out of my control, but the response to the feeling isn’t. For me, depression is not a choice. Happiness is.

Remembering The Stoke- Forgetting Everything Else

   I had recently wiped my ass with pieces of granite and alpine shrubbery (I forgot toilet paper). Our water was rather dirty (not related to my poop) (forgot cooking pot), and we were running out of it quite quickly. The goats that had cornered us into our bivi spot before they finally ran away from our rock throwing had returned. There would be no climbing today, and judging by the morning’s hike, tonight would be cold. A can of raw chickpeas with a crude gash of an opening ( I forgot a can opener) served as both dinner, and as our cleanest water source. Despite all this, the mood was light. Louis had found it in himself to laugh at my rookie mistakes and unpreparedness. The method may have been flawed, but the madness was perfect, and I couldn’t help but revel in our simple situation: hunkered down in a sea of peaks, seemingly millions of miles away from societal trivialities. There was a spoken collective excitement for the sun to set, and rise again so we could go onward. Nervous humour was the selected coping mechanism for the potentially uncomfortable night we both knew was inevitable.

I may have forgot a lot of things, but Louis didn't forget the red wine! 

     We were treated to a beautiful sunset, though its beauty was that of a cruel mistress, for we knew it would be short-lived and replaced by a cold, dark night. The Enchantment Range lived up to its name in those last moments of light. Pink sky blended with streaked alpine granite, the colours were vibrant, and then slowly gave way to the darkness and silence of night in the mountains. The stars were bright enough to give the imagination material to build off of, and soon my mind was entranced by the now inconceivable wilderness surrounding me. I have realized that the mountains assume a more ominous power when the sun leaves. Their presence can be felt more because it is seen less. The silhouettes of granite giants leave much for the imagination to fill. The dreamer in all of us becomes enthralled and the ego in all of us becomes intimidated. Peaceful silence is delicate, and often interrupted by a battle cry of rockfall. Nighttime in the mountains forces one to be at peace not with feeling small, but with being small. One has to be willing to accept the mountains as a dance partner, rather than a competitor, as there is nothing to win. Even if there was, no amount of chest puffing could defeat a massive piece of rock. Victory is in the dance itself, not the applause that may or may not come afterward. The moon and the mountains are great professors of liberation.

   The sound of goats shifting on scree eventually lulled me to sleep. I slept peacefully through the whole night, only waking to scare off the goats as they dared to go closer and closer to our bivi. Our night was pleasant. It wasn’t an epic that builds character, but instead a rather lovely place to have a rather lovely sleep. 

   Don’t let it go to your heads though boys, The Enchantments will conclude there first spanking of your asses with a retreat off one of her faces after only a pitch of climbing (forgot crucial size of cam)!

   Louis and I stashed some gear at the base of Colchuck Balanced Rock, convicting ourselves to return. My inexperience showed with my forgetfulness. I promised Louis and myself that rather than dwell I would learn and do better.

   We hung around town and bouldered for a day with our great friend Chris. After getting rained out of Powell River plans, fired out of Washington Pass plans, and temporarily spanked out of Enchantments plans, it felt good to finally get some volume in. Louis and Chris sent like madmen, and I tried my best. Running around boulders with your friends is an incredibly simple source of joy. My stoke was kindled and I was ready to head back into the mountains. 

The man, the myth, the Chris, enjoying the AMAZING climb Sleeping Lady

    It would be different this time. No bivying, no forgetting things, no obscure routes. Our objective was the West Face of Colchuck Balanced Rock in a car-to-car push. After a double inspection of our packs, I went to bed eager and calm. There was a strange lack of nerves, only excitement. I yearned for my alarm to go off. 4 am came rather early, and I jumped out of bed. Oatmeal was slammed, and in a half asleep state our hike began. 

   We moved with a silent purpose; two friends embarking on an adventure, having a keen understanding of the undertaking chosen and feeling no need to discuss it further. I was in the zone, and I could tell Louis was in the zone. With light packs and fresh legs the approach was brisk, and soon the trees thinned as we powered ourselves above the lake and toward the face. A slightly less than brief slog led us to our stashed gear, and we rested in a beautiful meadow below the talus of the face. I sprawled out on a boulder, enchanted (I write an amateur blog, I hope you expected that pun to come out at least once) by my surroundings and the face that I had signed up to climb. I felt slightly nervous looking at the striking West Face, but felt no displacement. I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

The West Face stands proud. I sit excited.

   The face called out to us, and its dark corners showed the obvious line through the jaws of the west face. Excitement built on the final leg of our approach, and it carried into the short moderate first pitch. I moved through the easy first pitch with As soon as I brought Louis up to the belay he began to move up the splitter crack above us. The crack petered out, and Louis was out of my view. Our communication simplified into the odd holler, and the movement of the rope. The physical unification of two souls adrift in a sea of granite. 

   On one end of the rope is the climber, stepping into the unknown and accepting the blanket of consequences that comes with the territory: The deep focus of a flow state, the grit of pouring yourself into a physical act- increasing the farther the act is from the perpetually expanding but never all encompassing comfort zone. Not to be forgotten is the strange euphoria of pulling it off, and the strange euphoria of trying hard and not pulling it off. 

   All of this of course relies on the hope that the beautiful peaks that quite randomly allow you safe passage continue to do so.

   On the other end is the belayer, who watches his partner- and usually close friend, slowly slip from vision and with them the security of companionship. Their absence allows a rampant mind to run, if it is let off its leash. There isn’t much to say about the experience, because there isn’t much about the experience itself. If communication is completely cut off due to a number of sources (Highway 99 in the case of the Stawamus Chief), the emotional experience can be a hope so deeply nurtured it flowers into an absolute belief. The physical experience is holding a rope.

   The experience typically isn’t as intense as I am making it sound. The risk is something that as climbers we try to both manage and- though I cannot speak for all climbers, try to celebrate. Try. Most of the time it isn’t gripping the holds for dear life while your friend is somewhere below doing the same to the rope for the same cause. In Louis and I’s case on the lower pitches of the West Face of Colchuck Balanced Rock, it really wasn’t. Honestly, most of the time climbing is internally quite meditative and externally as simple as humming a tune to yourself as you climb; Swatting a wasp as you think about dinner, belay, and marvel at the mountains at the same time. Louis cruised the second pitch, running out a tricky slab sequence above a small alien cam like the badass he is. 

                                                                                                          

    I had a brief moment on the third pitch. I was perhaps eight or nine metres from the belay, standing atop a detached pillar I had scrambled up, and now faced the task of stepping across back onto the mountain itself, and following a corner to a large ledge above me. The step was intimidating, the corner was mostly cloaked by a bulge in the rock, and the gear wasn’t straightforward. I deliberated with Louis, and with myself. My gear was okay, and in retrospect I’m sure it would’ve held; Louis said it was fine when he seconded the pitch, and his judgement would’ve been much less melodramatic. That being said, the Nat on that pillar sure didn’t believe in it as much as the Nat that is safely sitting in a Squamish cafe. On my island of safety, I kept thinking about a few mantras:

    Once you commit, there can be no hesitation. 

A quote inspired by the essay “The Third Party”, by John Lauchlan. (A wild story about the first ascent of Slipstream, an 1000 metre ice climb in the Canadian Rockies. The essay centres around the third member of the climbing party: The voice in Lauchlan’s basically telling him he is going to die.) 

Either commit to doing it, or not doing it. Own the decision you make.

   Strong. Calm. Confident.

   Liam Haigh’s mantra was recited in my head again and again. I knew it was time, and I torqued my right fingers into a good lock, and willed my foot high onto a good edge. I stood up, and tried my best to take the challenges I faced in stride. After a few more slabby moves, I cleaned the crack with the nut tool I forgot to give to Louis- a happy mistake, and found gear. I wanted to set sail, and I cut myself from the harbour. The waves were beautifully stirring.

   Louis stomach began to stir as well. We were eager to get off the ledge I had belayed him up to, especially after he took an emergency poop on it. There was an oxymoronic grace to his climbing despite his sickness. He would do a few moves, take a deep breath, nearly shit his pants, and continue with style. Louis didn’t even mutter a word of complaint; laughter would typically be the next noise after a mid pitch fart. The badass with the bad ass took us to an intermediate anchor, and then almost fought his way to an onsight of the 5.11 enduro corner that marks the start of the steep headwall. It was a hell of a lead, the gumption of which I cannot do justice with my words. To be feeling sick, and look up at a 5.11 layback endurance corner in the alpine with conviction, and climb it with conviction is fucking rad. After a few falls, I arrived at the anchor totally wiped from effort. 

   The burning in my forearms was soothed both by constant shaking and a realization of the position we found ourselves in. Louis’ lead brought us to the base of an awesome roof. Above our heads rested millions of tons of granite. Below our feet was the deep pastel blue of Colchuck Lake. We had stepped onto a stage with a magnificent setting, and a rightfully empty audience.

An enchanting view from the base of the route :) 

   It was time to act, though any attempt at deceiving the mountain would be feeble. There is nothing to deceive but ourselves. Passage would be most successful via honest effort, succumbing to the insignificance of our position on this mountain, and in this world. I focused on ridding myself of expectations and feelings of entitlement as I looked at the next pitch: A magnificent crack where roof and face meet, complimented by just enough edges for the feet; beautiful imperfections of the smooth alpine granite. Perhaps that is one of the many things we can learn from the mountains, that it is our perceived imperfections that make us accessible. Stoicism and “strength”, leave no room for both the good and the bad. All of us have cracks (I see the innuendo, I am cringing, bear with me), that have the possibility to be filled with once again, both love and hate. This is where hope is crucial. I hope to find love and joy in each moment. I hope to climb this pitch. 

   The burning evolved into a cramp quite early into the short pitch. After stumbling out of the gate, and not trusting sensei Louis’ judgement on a blind cam placement (like a fool!), my brain began to shut off. I remember reminding myself of the conversation I had with Louis in Leavenworth days prior, asking for this pitch after seeing it on our sans-toilet-paper-goat-imprisonment-chick-pea-gritfest. I was here, I had the opportunity for an experience that I wanted. With each move, I felt myself becoming more and more homogenized with my environment. My senses became intensely blurred, interacting with one another like a watercolour painting. Louis’ rooting blended beautifully with the ever growing intensity of the wind as I neared the end of the roof. These sounds heightened my understanding of my exposure. I would look down to place my foot on the next granite edge, and see the talus of the face’s crumbly past seemingly directly below my heel. There was none of the typical trepidation when I looked down however. Instead, the exposure felt more like an old friend. An old friend that in some way or another, had been present for the joyful, terrifying, and pivotal moments of my life, and was back to catalyze another. In this short roof traverse, all ceased to exist but an incredibly concentrated magnification of the presence. My old friend had wrapped its metaphorical blanket around me by physically doing the exact opposite: Briefly stripping me of conscious thought about everything in a setting where as mentioned before, there could be no deception. No place to hide, and no desire to be hidden. I stepped out from under the roof, and onto a ledge. The moment was gone. 

   As it should be. 

   I whooped to the Enchantment air, and began the process of setting up the belay for Louis. Louis second the pitch with his typical grace. We shared a jaw dropped look at how magnificent the pitch was. Collective content. Louis grabbed the rack and embarked on the second last pitch.

   My writing of Louis’ climbing is repetitive as I cannot offer internal dialogue. Most of the time, even if Louis is shitting his pants on the inside he remains cool as a cucumber. His climbing is decisive and confident. When Louis chooses to do something, he just does it. It is fucking rad to watch, and I am always inspired seconding his leads. Louis cruised until the crux of this pitch, and the route itself. After a an earnest go with tired limbs and a low sun, he efficiently aided the crux of the pitch, and soon I was climbing again. I did the same, my tired arms were no match for this boulder problem. I stood below the last pitch. The sun was high enough, we were going to summit in the light! 

   Bamboozled.

   An hour and forty minutes later I laid on my stomach in a horizontal v-slot ledge, trying to ignore my full body cramps, and redeem my pride-ridden and experience lacking lead by at least building an anchor and fixing the rope for Louis to jug in a decent time. The sun was teasing me with its last light, its raw beauty adding to the raw beauty of the experience I found myself in. In the last one hundred minutes, I fell, and then attempted to aid the pitch thinking that it would be quicker. This idea conveniently ignores the fact that I have next to zero experience aid climbing. Louis tried his best to help me, but I was unwilling to listen, selfishly wanting to “figure it out for myself”. The alpine is no place for pride or principles, especially when you are working as a unit. Partnership is sacred. I had to learn that the hard way, and Louis maintained patience as best as he could. Louis explained to me at the anchor that communication is essential, we must lose ourselves in the partnership and focus both on what we are doing as individuals and how that is going to impact the team. I apologized, apologized, apologized, and then apologized again. How lucky I am to have a wise, patient, and loving friend. A lesson learnt in a foolish and dangerous way, but a lesson learnt nonetheless. The raw exposure of my inexperience and good intentioned but terribly communicated traits didn’t take away from the beauty of the situation, and it is important to note that. The beauty of the alpine is in the experiences. Adventure isn’t always just the pleasant moments you see on Instagram, and if it was then perhaps we wouldn’t be so drawn to it. Exposure and adventure are defined by being naked among uncertainty. This goes both ways, sometimes you pull it off, sometimes you build character. The lows in themselves are highs, as it is the moments where you’re in the middle of an intense ass kicking that you learn two important things: 1. that you can survive an ass kicking (a privileged one albeit). 2. How to avoid an ass kicking down the road.  You win some, you learn some.

   There wasn’t much time for reflection and Louis was keen to move- though I have no idea why. He was acting as if his partner had just totally ignored his helpful advice, and thus had to sit at a belay for over an hour. Crazy!!!! He grabbed the rack and powered us to another ledge where we began simuling and climbing on running belays in waning light. We were like two rats trying to find their way out of a maze, weaving and bobbing around loose flakes and boulders piled on top of one another, searching desperately for safe passage off the dark face. After only one close call, in which I broke a hold off and hit Louis in the hand- causing another million apologies, we found our way through a slot and our tired feet touched the promised land of scree at last! 

   It was now pitch black. We stopped for a moment to put on our headlamps, and hugged a great hug of genuine friendship. Our descent was beautifully uneventful. The peaceful silence of the mountains settled deeper into our tired, content minds the further we descended. By the time we were getting “close” to the car, I began to hallucinate vividly. Rocks became lawn chairs, trees bore human made signs of all variety. It reminded me of a story from Bernadette McDonald’s Freedom Climbers in which Voytek Kurtyka describes the altitude induced hallucinations he succumbed to on Gasherbrum IV “as a gift”. Louis and I discussed the awesome rare reality we were living, in which we had exhausted ourselves to the point of losing slight control of our minds. It was a unique experience that would soon be over, and once again cannot be wished away. It was 3 a.m by the time we stumbled back to the minivans we eagerly left twenty two hours prior, keen for the adventure that lay ahead. Now, we both nursed celebratory menthols (I love you America!), happy and content with the adventure that took place; eager and keen for the adventures that lay ahead- and sleep. Sweet, sweet sleep.

   La montañas son mi casa.

Cave Reflection, Wind Refreshment

   I understand that this piece is rather colloquial (thanks for the help on that one, spell check!), and full of what I can understand as being a surplus of flavourful vocabulary. The mountains are a powerful place in which we can rid ourselves of triviality- and pardon my reach, by being a wide eyed sponge, learn about what matters, and then jaunt on these important trails with vigour. Godspeed in wading through adjective after adjective!


   I couldn't decipher between the feeling of a soft rain storm, and the mosquitos in spades. Both were trying to pierce my lost-and-found wardrobe. Carl was preparing gear in the mosquito free peace of his Sprinter. Every glance to the southwest ended with a shout of glee, as the Hound's Tooth was still visible, refusing to be enveloped by the alpine storm we chose to block out of our minds. The rain became heavier, my soul lighter. We were there. Nothing else mattered.

   Thanks to the character building amount of things on our backs, our elevation gain was slow, and rain became sleet before it was snow. The vista became more and more surreal: Granite spires rising out of a desolate glacier, shooting toward the sky with gumption; defying the idea of human entitlement in the mountains. We dipped peanut M&M's into a melting stick of butter (a fine delicacy) in the mess room of the Conrad Kain Hut, which made for quite the conversation starter with those scurrying into the shelter. Everyone was kind, but they simply weren't the mountains. The societal bubble amongst the wilderness made me keen to defy the wishes of my legs and finish the kilometre slog to Applebee Dome. We stayed long enough, payed the custodian the camp fees, and our legs stepped into the elements with a familiar burn.

   The final leg of the approach was done in a magnificent weather window. The landscape flowed through me, and I felt light. Carl could see my eagerness and insisted that I keep moving ahead of him. It was a small explicit gesture, but it highlighted the kindness and understanding of my friend. I am exaggerating the grandness of this gesture because it allowed me to have time alone with the mountains. To be "alone" with the mountains is time that should be sought after in moderation. The solitude primes the soul for absorption of the surroundings, and the surroundings offer perspective. This perspective dominos into appreciation for everything in our lives, and ultimately, happiness, or at least a keen pursuit of it. I was alone, but not lonely. There was no humanity in my small Bugaboo bubble between refuges. Of course my painting ignores the hues of the incredibly, LUXURIOUSLY, well trodden trail that was easy to follow, even with a dusting of snow; there are brighter colours to focus on. Anyways! My self awareness dwindled to minimal as I was held by the indifferent hands of the mountains.

   A brief, ironically self aware interruption from writing that has you either full cringe, and continuing to read out of sheer entertainment, or with the hope my intention shines through, running to your hills, whatever those hills may be: 

   These moments were highly spiritual, and in the comfort of a home, or even in the wifi laden cafe I write this in, can be looked upon incredulously. To put them into words that lack honesty, and more importantly lack the effort of truly doing them justice, would be a disservice. I am learning that sometimes society teaches us to look down on honest eccentricity- especially within ourselves. We look down from bland grey towers built with mortar and the brick of ego. The safety of this metaphorical tower left me subconsciously squirming, and thanks to friends that challenge and inspire me, I took an honest step outside. With this step came introspection, and a view of the ugly, ugly tower. Another metaphor for the ego, this one passed to me by my friend Liana, is that it is a dragon within us. When it rears its head, the sword must be swung. This dragon in particular is rather heinous and its head will constantly regrow. The war wages on for all of our lives.

   My horse isn't high, it is simply a revelation I have gone through in the past few months. It has contributed to a happiness so deeply engrained within me that to hold it for myself would be a sledgehammer to the collective pillars that happiness stands on. On a more shallow depth, my sharing is also for the sake of context.

   The alpine wind carried with it a cold that in many other circumstances would've felt uncomfortable. In this moment, it felt refreshing. Everything felt refreshing, even the burn in my legs, and the growing strain of my shoulders. The wind made me think of a bathroom air dryer at the Telus Convention Centre. My surroundings had changed dramatically in the last forty eight hours. Two days prior, in my fanciest clothes, I ate a fancy feast (not the cat food, not yet) at my high school graduation among family and old friends. We caught up, laughed lots, danced the night away, and I retired to a cozy minivan and the arms of the love of my life. It was fantastic, and certainly not tainted by, but surrounded by the triviality of excess materialism (that I more than willingly indulged in) and the odd societal expectations that had been erased from my mind by the lifestyle of Squamish, and incredibly supportive family and friends. My flashback was brief, and another gust brought back presence, and with it, more refreshment. Refreshment that washed away triviality. The beautiful aspects of life, though never tainted, can now flourish perpetually without the excess weight of dense bullshit. Refreshment is the power of the mountains, the energy to be absorbed. My walk of solitude ended as I neared the camp, and after a hilariously close call during a scramble in an attempt to save time, I greeted others at the camp with glee. I looked back at the trail, and after a few short moments saw Carl. I was happy to have my time alone, and now looked forward to being in a place of wonder with friends. The forecast at the hut must've been wrong, we hiked up in decent conditions. We may get to climb after all!

   A bitch slap to the face came in the form of a forecasted blizzard as were setting up our tent and cooking dinner. We kept saying that we would play it by ear. I cannot speak for Carl, but my mind and heart were at a battle. The blizzard obviously meant that climbing would not be probable, but how can one lose hope, especially when dealing with the prospect of climbing. CLIMBING! IN THE BUGABOOS! All we could do was punch snow off Carl's workhorse of a three season tent, and enjoy our front row seats to a display of the power of the Earth. We went to sleep rather early, and the warmth of my massive lost-and-found sleeping bag had me drifting away from the Bugaboo storm.

   Another bitch slap to the face woke me up, this time in the form of a tent on the brink of a collapse, and nylon in my face. I cleared the snow off, and it provided a little more room, but the snow that we were clearing off was collecting around the tent and enclosing our shelter. It was what it was, we would be fine. Carl said something about his heart being full, and his words hung in the tent. With a content feeling, I couldn't help but concur. Sleep came and went throughout the night.

   With the morning light came the reality that considering the lack of days we had to sit out the storm, we would not be doing any rock climbing on this Bugaboo adventure. I was oddly surprised when it wasn't a tough pill to swallow. We hiked out in a short afternoon weather window, four days earlier than planned. Our morning was spent in a cave brewing tea, milking a cigarette, and poking our heads out at the show, still going on with vibrance. Through conversation and self reflection that a cave in the mountains catalyze quite well, I began to understand my relationship with climbing more deeply. The movement is amazing. The accomplishment that comes with "sending", or seeing a goal through, is fantastic. I'll be the first to admit it feels good to have a friend congratulate you. But the centre of my climbing universe and what I now know will be the key to longevity in the lifestyle is one without expectations. The only expectation can be pouring yourself into what you love. Climbing, and other pursuits. 690%. To be truly disappointed (and not just letting out a hearty "fuck! and getting over it) about going to the Bugaboos and not climbing, or punting off your project for the 69th time, is to miss the essence of climbing: adventure. Part of adventure is stepping into the unknown with both feet. Toes cannot be merely dipped in the easy parts, and it must be embraced with warmth that sometimes the unknown will not be what is societally perceived as pleasant, and it will kick your ass. Masochism in this metaphor is key. It cannot solely be the growth that comes out of the struggle, but the struggle in itself must be enjoyed as well. "Sending" in climbing, and in life, is so rare that if it is the only moment enjoyed, much of life would be spent unhappy. Adventure, for the sake of adventure. It is cliche, because it is true: Climbing, for the sake of FUCKING CLIMBING!!!! YAHOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

If you look closely, and use your imagination, you can see Snowpatch Spire

    In the hour long~ weather window we used to pack up, and hike out of the habitat of a beautiful beast that refused to open its jaws, we were treated to a grand finale. As the rarity of sunshine hit the spires, Snowpatch Spire came alive, sending a hearty amount of its infamous snowpatch plummeting to the ground. It was loud, then it was not. A final stroke of a bow against a violin, and then silence once more. Carl and I walked out with full packs, sore knees, and full hearts. The beautiful, volatile Bugaboos had thrown gas on the fire of inspiration and excitement. We were there. Nothing else mattered. 

The Puntcast Episode 1: Kyle Smith

   Out of a flurry of vulgar language, fringe fuelled anarchy, and laughter comes the Puntcast.

   By no means is it perfect, but by all means is it raw and ridiculous.

https://soundcloud.com/puntcast/the-puntcast-episode-1

   The Puntcast left the harbour with a sail full of wind thanks to "BC Refugee" Kyle Smith, and his dog Chilko. This episode features tons of laughter, (headphone users beware) mounds of bullshit thanks to yours truly, and horrendous language. Our topics are vast. The first minute is a tidbit about Chilko trying to spread love and being greeted with a frightened tourist, and ultimately, the boys in blue.

A man, a dog, a sea of granite, a camera, and a beautiful landscape that despite being out of reach from the masses finds its grand natural beauty threatened by humanity. Kyle Smith is a great person, and I thank him for not letting me die in the North North Gully, and hopping on this rag tag podcast.

The cover photo for this episode is a beautiful shot by Kyle himself.

You can learn more about, and support Pacific Wild here:
pacificwild.org/

At one point, Kyle shows a collection of photos by Ian McAllister, you can learn more about Ian here:

pacificwild.org/about/our-team/ian-mcallister

Happiness is a Goofy Thing

   Upon my return from Smith Rock, I found my wide eyes looked at the world differently. The grand became more grand, and the bland became more bland.

   Spring in the Rockies is a time of magic. The harsh Rockies winter is being cornered by the warming sun, but lashing back with violent avalanches. It is as if it is a final display of power by a proud beast before it recoils into the void, vowing to return again. The creeks are beginning to swell, and on the other end of the scale the rock is beginning to dry. Keeners wade into spring projects, eager to get after it. My psyche has been shot into space, perpetually rising eternally.

   The grand is grand.

    This inspiration and happiness made the return to the willing participation in the rat race stark. My energy was being drained by work rather than utilized on climbing, and for what? Every answer I could think of felt awkward and difficult to accept, as they all lead to dead ends: Work a crappy job, climb tired in the evenings, pay rent so I can comfortably work a crappy job. My light was being drained, and shone into a room that hid no treasure.

   The bland is bland.

   Fuck that!

   The next week was a flurry of action fuelled by passion. Once freedom is tasted, the soul rejects mediocrity. Once frugality is tasted, the bank account rejects rent. The teal paint of my minivan absorbed the sun like never before, for it knew it was its time to shine. Hutch the minivan realized his potential in the barehands-built shop belonging to my grandfather. Thanks to the generational collaboration of great minds, my ticket to freedom was punched. The process of watching your childhood heroes and biggest fans turn your minivan into your home is a total spectacle. Climbing rocks is really cool, but unconditional love and support is cooler.

Dream team!

   I pulled my anchor that was the job holding me in emotional backwater, and the current soon swept me downstream with joyful refreshment. On a whim birthed out of the promise of a job interview half drunkenly applied for, my life was packed into eight totes. My internal compass sent me west and I soon embarked on a classic Canadian climbing pilgrimage to the promised land: Squamish. Rod Stewart would have said that "paradise was closed, so I headed to the coast" (in a blissful manner indeed). I disagree. Paradise is wide open, and it is found in the wide open. The Rockies bid me adieu with a sunset for the ages. I looked at the sea of peaks that I so dearly cherish, and thought of the friends that filled the Bow Valley with love. A part of my heart will always be reserved for the people and the peaks of the Rockies. I consulted mentors about the move, and had beers with best friends weighing the privileged options. They pushed me forward, as good friends do, as I hope I do in reciprocation. I smiled as I left the range, knowing that I would be back for many adventures. Soon, everything I knew was in the rearview. The darkness added to the mystique of my standing. I laughed and inhaled joy as the brisk air flew through my short hair. My somehow now wider eyes (how many times can I say "wide eyes" until my eyes are too wide, and my face loses all symmetry?) looked introspectively and plainly at the oxymoronic beauty of my situation. The best way to explain my feelings is through an oddly formatted series of plain statements. Some of them are societally perceived as negative, and my pursuits can be interpreted as contrived. (Climbing rocks is contrived? Since when?) Luckily, I constantly have my fist stereotypically raised against the man and don't give a shit about what you think, unless you completely agree with all my choices and have nothing new to contribute, in which case please reach out and stroke my ego.

   The introspection left me with my head out the window and screaming a battlecry against the mundane:

   1. You might not even have enough money to get to Squamish.
   2. You don't have a job yet.
   3. You don't have an address.
   4. You've never climbed the style of rock that is in Squamish.
   5. You are probably going to suck at it at first.
   6. You are making a major life decision based off of a bunch of large pieces of inanimate rock.
6.66. You chose this.
6.9. You chose this! Rad!
   7. I think a bug just flew into my mouth.
   8. A bug definitely flew into my mouth.
   9. I wonder what the protein specs were on that bad boy.
  10. Does this mean I'm not a vegetarian anymore?
   420. Awesome.

   Happiness is a goofy thing.

Beyond The Picnic Tables

Beyond the Picnic Tables

South of Madras, there is a rather insignificant hill that is homogenous to the plethora of dry farmland that covers central Oregon. After double digit hours in a car, the hills blend and the trees pass on a familiarity to each other as they blur past. But not this hill. This hill was the final opaque medium before the promised land. After Liam announced that we could see “it” over the hill, my grogginess left my body and was replaced with eager anticipation. I could see this theme was unanimous with my three friends in the car. The hill ended, and what came next was a view that no internet research can prepare for, and a feeling of excitement that only an individual at the headwaters of total freedom can feel. The volcanic tuff shot out of the Crooked River; the formations are grand, and unique, like a collection of an artists’ best work (Not you, jesus). My hair that Liam would later cut in a city park in Bend flew in the wind and my nose took in all the American freedom it could handle.

Smith Rock, Oregon.

The homies.

Two weeks.

SPRING BREAK BITCHES!!!!!

I just passed the hill, and am discussing with Luke how I sum this trip up in a piece that isn’t so long only my Grandma will read it (Lynn, you’re a legend!) but paints the picture of this trip in the vivid colours that it deserves. The last two weeks were eye opening and a glimpse into the lifestyle that I envision myself living for some time to come. My time in Smith Rock legitimized climbing as a lifelong pursuit. I now know that I am not someone who climbs, I am a climber. The happiness and freedom are just too fulfilling to even consider doing anything else. The last two weeks have been incredibly full. Full of power screams, terrifying falls, apple pipes, sunsets, and magical moments where the universe is stripped down to the howling laughter of a friend, or the howling wind and the air beneath a smeary foothold that finally doesn’t pop. It is all absolute gold.

The beauty of having extended time doing solely what you love is that the days both blend and stick out at the same time. The day of the week never enters your mind, and life begins to roll like a mountain stream, slowing down in eddy’s when the time is right, and moving swiftly at others. The water is always cold, the views are always beautiful. Of course however, there are moments that stuck out. These are the moments that are embedded and now, as a mosaic with all of the other magic moments, inspire everything that I do. Reiterating, each second was cherished, but these are the seconds that seemed to last forever, and were gone before I knew it. Nothing gold can stay, but the dirt is always rich if you keep digging. 

Our trip was full of characters, and the story cannot be told without the characters being unveiled. Luke Dean is a thrift shop connoisseur, plans his outfits for the crag, and is the most driven person I have ever met. Ben Freeman is the pride of Nanton, Alberta. A lover of man spreading, he’s a goofy guy that pulls hard and takes lots of photos. Liam Haigh eats tons of kale, climbs with a certain elegance, and is a friend that became a total friggin bestie on the trip. Later, we were joined by the Martino brothers. Tyson and Kyle are good at pushing each others buttons and even better at climbing. Tyson has become a close friend thanks to our mutual love for Enya and his pure excitement about being alive. Kyle is a firefighter in training and earned the nickname Maguyver after sewing my Uggs and taping his phone to a pair of binoculars because telephoto lenses are far too expensive. We were also joined by Luke’s cousin Easton and his hilarious Californian slang. Our crew was rag tag to say the least. While some nights we were a bit of a mess thanks to cranberry juice and oregano, each morning began with a walk into the park during which our psyche would bounce off of each other, snowballing and culminating with each conversation. I’m proud of the friends I went to Smith Rock with for the sole reason that I know that we did not leave anything down there. It is special to be apart of a collective that is committed to pouring themselves into something and I am forever grateful.

The following is a collection of beautiful moments that have now turned to memories, forever engrained in my mush brain. 

Waves Through The Rope- Voyage of the Beans 

As Luke danced through the last pitch of “Voyage Of The Cowdog”, I was jubilant, and inspired by his composure. Last August, I was on the other end of the rope when Luke had a full on panic attempt during an attempt at a big multi pitch in the Bow Valley. It was a different person belaying me up to the perch that marked the end of the route. Not only was it evident with his trademark climbing style: Like a precise ballroom dance that still has a splash of artistry dusted on top of it. I could see it in his eyes, and hear it in his voice. The fear wasn’t gone, we all know that it never leaves. But it was dealt with differently. Rather than be the kid waiting in the car, Luke knocked on fear’s door and put a steaming pile of shit on the porch. There was no cowardice when facing the catacombs of his mind. It was the most inspiring and magical 5.9 of my life. The summit gave us views of our playground for the next sixteen days. We were eager to get back to the ground simply so we could find more rock to climb. The tone for the trip was set. 

Some random 5.10 crack

The first time I laid eyes on this line I had no idea of the warmup grade, and found myself inspired. Climbing for the sake of climbing at its finest. At times the crack was scary, and jamming my hands, fists, fingers, and feet into a crack felt foreign. But beneath the mystery of technique was the mystique of the movement. Falling into the rhythm of crack climbing is like swirling into a whirlpool. At first it is slow. The ground remains close, and the moves feel odd and painful. But in the blink of eye the pain of the jams is a reminder of security rather than a hinderance, and torquing your feet is propelling you upward in a metronomic rhythm. I got some weird looks for whooping and hollering my way up and down my warm up, and that is a shame. Lately, I have found myself getting more and more of a kick out of every single route that I do. My love for climbing is no longer select or hardened to the classics or my projects, but instead it is fluid and shines through with each time that I touch stone. The sheer joy I got out of this route was a microcosm of the trip and climbing itself. The whooping and hollering was broken up sporadically by my raving of how “all I want to do is crack climb”, and that “Im definitely going to the creek (Indian Creek, Utah) now.” Follow joy! It is going down in October, and yes, I AM yelling timber! This route threw gas on my bonfire of happiness and cracked a spark of inspirations. I am now supplied with a faint light on the horizon that I can use as a bearing of exploration, the rest is unknown, the way it should be. 

Wow! 

The title of this one comes from the prophet Owen Wilson, and is a short story of developing friendship and ridiculousness. Liam and I had climbed together a little before the trip, but our relationship was mostly joking around at the gym and giving each other the odd belay. While driving through Spokane, I told Liam that I was excited to climb together more and become better friends on the trip. The epic days that followed blew my expectations out of the water. It began on the classic route “Monkey Space.” We sort of roped up but mostly simul solo’d up easy ground to the start of the route, our only protection being a cam Liam placed that promptly fell out of the rock as I was climbing up to it, and one bolt for a belay at the top. The route itself started on a ledge already quite high on the Monkey Face and traversed into quite an infamous cave, before climbing out of the mouth of the monkey, and onto the sought after tag of the summit of the larger than life formation. Liam and I were jazzed, and got a little bit of friendly teasing from another party for only having one helmet between the two of us. We reckoned the second would use the helmet, and the leader would don my mom’s denim Nike hat for both fashion and protection from the sun. I was on the sharp end for the traverse and nervously moved off the ledge. My climbing became more fluid as I settled in. The movement was spectacular; Core intensive delicate traversing among spaced out bolts. The climbing was glorious and the trickier section ended in a bulge to pull over with an oddly placed bolt. I totally messed up the sequencing of clipping the bolt, almost blew the bolt, and then blew my onsight of this moderate. The negative energy I felt hanging on the rope faded instantaneously when I looked across at my smiling friend, down at all the air below my feet, and I took in a breath. To be upset at not sending this route, or to be gratified to be up here enjoying a genuine experience? Disappointment just means you care. I chose to feel it, and then let it pass. The smile on my face was an easy one to put on, and it didn’t leave for much of the rest of the route. Liam and I were mystified by the cave at the top of the traverse pitch. Due to the overhanging nature of the Monkey Face it feels like a living room up in the sky with a green screen backdrop of high desert and dormant volcanoes. Surreal is a complete understatement. We spent a lot of time in there, trying our best to soak up each moment. Liam led us out of the cave and onto the summit, and soon we were on top of the Monkey Face. There were tourists across the gap, only a rope length away physically but they might as well have been on Neptune. Liam and I were elated, completely jazzed on the surreal becoming very, very, real. I have said earlier, and continue to stand by that this feeling of pure lightness can only be felt climbing, and more specifically climbing with good people. The tourists took photos, and I went to take a video of Liam celebrating. Like the man bun monk he is, quietly he stated, “We’ve got it up here, forever.” At this, I paused, laughed, and respected his wishes. He was right, as with much of my writing at times it seems futile because nothing will replace the act of doing. If you want to know what it is like to climb Monkey Space with an amazing friend, then grab an amazing friend and climb Monkey Space. Liam and I found out quickly that we work well together on the rope. I am always thought provoked by our conversations and moved by his insight. The nail in the friendship coffin came when he waded through rattlesnake company to retrieve my pack after I almost got bit, “because you don’t have health insurance, and I do.”

Another rite of passage our partnership went through was our first mini epic. We had enjoyed a day of volume cragging, Liam put down a 5.12 pretty quick and we both got punted off the last move of a blue collar 5.12 stem climb. We decided to finish our day and start our evening by hopping on the easy “Wherever I may roam.” The five pitches were a blur, swinging leads on easy terrain and moving fast. Liam linked the last two pitches and turned the easy sport climb into a runout fiesta that had me laughing into the waxing night. The boys had talked about having a bit of a fiesta back at camp, so we were eager to get back to camp after a long day. The rappel however, was not a fiesta. No muy fiesta. I ran out of rope on a rappel after not having the sides even (middle markers rock!).It was a foolish mistake and if it wasn’t for a bolt that I could heel hook too in order to fix it, it would’ve cost us a couple more hours at the least. With bats flying around and lizards emerging from the stone, the tone was quite heavy, but our spirits remained high. Even higher when we got even lower, I may add. We reached the ground with the only issue being that it was now completely dark and the fear that the boys might already be hammered back at camp and we would have catching up to do. Catching up is always a dangerous game as more often than not, you find yourself in the lead. We jaunted back around to the frontside of the park and to the bridge, where we saw headlights coming on. Thinking it was the rangers and wanting to avoid a ticket for being in the park at night, we hid in the bushes near the top of the hill, and watched a spectacle emerge on one of the walls down in the park. The angle of the lights we were hiding from had set up a massive, fifty metre tall shadow show on the walls of volcanic tuff. It looked like a cult, sitting in a circle, moving around every now and then. My imagination raced. “What the hell is going on up there?” We decided we couldn’t sit forever and would have to make a break for it. We began to move, the headlights started to move toward us. I grimaced at first, my exhausted mind making me nervous. Voices followed. Familiar voices… the boys!!!! With beers!!! Hell yes!!!! 

Sunshine Dihedral

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH” The amount of h’s on that are not hyperbolic and I feel properly represent my fear/power/ohmygodimgonnadie scream right before I took the fall of my life on Sunshine Dihedral. I knew my gear at the bottom wasn’t great but that I had bomber gear below me. That belief was questioned for a split second as one of my pieces ripped out of the wall. Before my next piece caught me, there was one moment of accepted fate. It is hard to explain, because the time in the air is so brief, but your mind seems to have all the time in the world to question every decision ever leading up to that point in your life. It brought me satisfaction that my mind was at a sort of panicked peace when the piece gave me more peace and prevented me from hitting the ground and scarring my friends. I called it a “liberation burn”. I had pushed through my fear, tried hard, and accepted the consequences of committing. Unfortunately, this time that consequence was almost hitting the ground, but next time that consequence could be sending the route. Balance is always a difficult thing to find. The balance between pushing yourself and pushing yourself too far is no exception. The Sunshine Dihedral was a good scope and look into my climbing. The direction I want to go is difficult traditional climbing, but I also have to remind myself that there is a lack of experience that simply cannot be replaced by just trying hard. A base is so important, and currently my mental state is above my physical state. I also know that this is an easy fix, or at the least much easier than if the situation was flipped. Muscles can be trained and technique can be learned. Training the mind is much more fickle, something that I, and every climber struggle against each time we rope up. I wasn’t inspired by the movement on Sunshine the way I wanted to be, and chose to look elsewhere for climbs to focus on. Nonetheless, I didn’t leave empty handed from the flaring corner. I confirmed to myself the direction of climbing I want to pursue, and now know that by combining the undying fire of psyche within the soul, the value of volume, a great diet of quinoa, lentils, and the odd donut cause I am just such a bad boy, that I will climb my dream routes. I may never learn how to fix run on sentences, but I will climb my dream routes. I will climb hard.

Shenanigans

“Okay Liam, just don’t cut too short. I don’t want to be bald.” 

“Relax man, I got you.” 

“LIAM!” I

“So, its a little short, and the razor isn’t really cutting anymore.” 

It was too early in the morning in a city park in Bend, Oregon to have my good friend cutting my hair. But there we were. Laughing our asses off and making a scene. After washing my long hair in a water fountain that morning, I recruited Liam. Armed with clippers and a precise look in his eyes, he was the man for the job. Unfortunately the tools failed and I had to turn to the pros for a buzzcut. I quickly learned that my hairdresser’s ex husband’s name was Nathaniel, and I tried not to show my fear as she went at my head with scissors and razors. Despite her vengeful eyes, she did a great job and I walked out with a pep in my step, Electric Avenue style. My tattoo that I got in Portland on our last rest day shone in the Oregon sunlight as my sewed Uggs (thanks Kyle) strutted the sidewalk. 

Well that was a ridiculous sentence. 

Whether it was Tyson screaming a request for an Enya song, or Luke buying out entire thrift stores, our time spent off the rock was completely ridiculous. I cannot speak for my friend, but there was a sense of freedom in the air. A feeling that catalyzed self expression and eccentricity. It was as if we were on a journey, travelling among the rest of the people outside of the climbing community, but not with them, nor apart from them. The sun’s that we travel around are completely different. Climbing is all consuming. It has somewhat of an “it” factor. Not in the sense of special talent, but the fact that there is a certain moment where you transition from a person who climbs, into a climber. The shenanigans of eating off pre-bussed plates, washing hair in fountains, drunkenly buying a lawn chair in Walmart, and creating incredibly close relationships with once random people are all strengthened and validated not by logic or reason, but simply by the joy that the act of climbing brings. The moment is a special visual representation of that.

The Moment

I knew the sequence of the moves, but wasn’t thinking about them. I wasn’t thinking about anything. The hundreds of feet of air below my smeary footholds didn’t exhilarate me or fill my mind with fear. My hands, bruised and battered from weeks of climbing, ceased to hurt. All I could hear was my breathing, and the wind. The wind provided rhythm for my hands and feet to dance up the stone, finally freed to breathe the air after time in the catacombs of my mind. My right hand reached around the corner, and I felt the temperature change of the different faces of rock. I found the pocket, let out a small noise of effort and worked my feet up. My heels stabbed at either side of the fridge like feature of rock, keeping me clung to this delicate balance of rock and air. I reached my right hand back onto the fridge, and yanked on a small, sloping crimp. The smear feet popped, I was airborne, and then I was not. I noticed the pain in my hands, and I was once more exhilarated by the exposure. Luke shouted encouragement at me. I thanked him for the catch. He lowered me and I described what I had felt and began to refer to it as a “magic burn”. It is a moment of incredible presence and focus, and it used to be rare for me. The Backbone and its exposure almost made “magic burns” easy to get into. I’m sure my eyes were as bright as my pink sweater as I relayed the clarity that Luke knew well from personal experience, ending each sentence with something synonymous to “this is all I want to do, this is my life.” Luke’s genuine grin returned with a “me too” and we felt it at that moment. Pure happiness. I am a climber.

Smith Rock was life changing, and as always, my sign off is a thank you to the people that made it so. The homies of Camp 69, the locals that totally made Smith feel like home, the Calgary crew that drove us to Walmart and put up with our goofiness, and of course, the angry man who told us “to take the party back to the picnic tables”. Sorry old man, you cannot kill the vibe, it is immortal.