Tatooine: Rock Pirates, Yelp reviews, and fat boy's with clarinets

It is five pm on Monday, November 11. 

Twenty four hours ago, five pm on Sunday, November 10, I was enveloped in a different episode of the desert golden hour. The red talus glowed one thousand feet below mine, and for a few moments it was the desert and I and the line between us had never been more blurred. Twelve rhythmic rope lengths of climbing brought us to this perch. Dane and I had moved efficiently all day, not in a rush but consistently moving upward. We shared the difficulty (sustained climbing), the uncertainty (will this hold crumble?), and the joy (it held!) that cultivates from this rich soil. It was the kind of climbing day you dream about; idyllic: Beautiful climbing, a great friend, and a magnificent setting. I could feel the energy we shared through the rope; a determined duo paddling a rowboat through the rolling waves of a sandstone ocean. According to the topo, the twelfth pitch was the last big wave for our rowboat to manage.

“Dance the dance tomorrow.”

Mason’s text was my mantra all day. Dance the dance. Dance the dance. It reminded me to move on the mountain with a soft step that sent out a little ripple, ripe with intention.

  I felt connected to my partner and the mountain I was dancing with. Dane and I exchanged a hearty fist bump and I rowed us right into the wave, trying my best not to blink. As soon as I pulled on the first hold, a cramp zoomed through my arm and down my oblique. My muscles screamed with the wrench of the cramp but they didn’t scream for me to let go. My physical fatigue may have had a shot if it was just I, but it was no match for the intertwination of the situation. Dane thwarted the fatigue’s coup with each encouraging word from his dehydrated voice. The desert massaged my muscles with a warm updraft and its pastel hues. The golden hour, a golden partner; to be so fortunate to be in their company not only inspired but demanded a golden effort. I couldn’t bear the thought of climbing this high and giving up. Falling would be okay, but falling with anything left in the tank is a hard thing for me to justify when inspiration runs high. Isn’t it better to trip over your own feet than to go sit down cause you don’t know the steps?

       I let out a lone power scream and threw to a hand jam that marked the end of the hard climbing. A maniacal “YAR” roared from the depths of my soul and I raced ahead of my cramping muscles to the belay. I enjoyed the company of a curious mouse as I belayed Dane. Soon, another hearty “YAR” bounced off of Kinesava's flanks; Dane’s left hand was locked into the mountain. Our rowboat was intact after the wave, and its splash was rather refreshing. Two rock pirates paddling to nowhere like madmen. Two big, toothy grins turned red by the setting sun.

Sometime later, with the desert now turned into a blurry navy blue by the light of the full moon, I studied the movement of the rope with my headlamp. I couldn’t see Dane, he was in the depths of Mt. Kinesava around a corner in a hallway-like chimney. All I could do was study and react. Sometimes the rope would move away from me, and then back toward me. Other times it would move rapidly away from me. Other times it wouldn’t move for a long time. I shouted encouragement into the chimney during these times, and I hoped Dane was okay.  Sometime later, his headlamp popped onto the summit and he shouted into the blue “I’m alive!”. His chuckles of relief warmed me as he shouted I was on belay, and I began my toprope jaunt through the scene of his lead walkabout. It was a maze. The rope went into the chimney, up a hand crack, and then shot straight out of the chimney and seemingly into the thousands of feet of air surrounding the upper headwall of Kinesava’s south face. I hollered at Dane, inquiring about this confusing scene, and he instructed me to follow the chimney to the air and then turn left into a hidden amphitheatre of loose rock. Dane would later name the amphitheatre “The Cave of Sorrow”. 

       I followed the rope through The Cave of Sorrow, finding no protection to clean, and having to look quite hard for rock to hold that wouldn’t turn to dust.  It felt good to mantel out of that strange hidden world and back into the blurry navy blue, now showing hints of its daylight appearance due to Dane’s headlamp. I joined my friend at the summit. Dane’s route finding and boldness were bewildering, inspiring, and frankly, confusing. A great gift of the mountains is their demand of growth in exchange for play; and another, watching your friends soar when they didn’t even know they could fly. Great Dane rose to the occasion. He didn’t ask for the final pitch to be easier or less scary, he asked for himself to be more rugged and bold; he controlled what he could and didn’t fret what he couldn’t. The Great Dane followed his nose well. We laughed and hugged. We exchanged big, toothy grins, this time turned a glaring white from our headlamps. The pirates continued their paddling, hugging each other when reaching a contrived point in the ocean. Their eyes gleamed with the reflection of gold, but couldn’t they see there was nothing but waves and ocean and each other? 

"Yar." 

   It is five pm on Monday, November 11. 

Twelve hours ago, five am on Monday, November 10,  I was drowsily down climbing a section of easy fifth class terrain to Dane’s coaching. In his hands were the fifteen metres of rope remaining post-chop after our ropes got stuck for the fourth time. Tied around me in a very, very secure backpack coil was the intact, albeit severely kinked seventy metres of our other rope. The down climbing was thankfully straightforward, and I complimented Dane on his dim headlamp route finding; a child of the mountains following his nose. We rigged another rappel and his figure became blurry once again in the light of the full moon.

It is five pm on Monday, November 11. (Actually, it is now 10:24 on Tuesday, November 12th, and that has less rhythm and romance to it. I’ll repeat “five pm on Monday November 11 a few more times, and it might even be the 13th, or the 14th when I write again. I am a bad, bad boy and I cannot be stopped!)

It is five pm on Monday, November 11. 

Nineteen hours ago, ten pm on Sunday November 10, Dane and I were pulling the rope on our fourth rappel of the evening. This was the same place that hosted our immersion of the magic of the evening redness. The true ground was still a thousand feet for so below ours, slowly becoming closer and closer with each descent and pull of the ropes. I’ve always liked rappelling, it has its own flavour of adventure to it. I pulled a little harder on the resistant rope, and it wouldn’t budge. A little flick, and another pull. Not a budge. A thoughtful “hmm” was met with a worried “what”, and both the “hmm” and the “what” really meant were “bear down motherfucker this is going to be a long night”. The flavour of adventure was tasted in its fullest. All. Night. Long. 

       “It was pretty dehydrating, a little stressful, and thick with mystery, but honestly it tasted          pretty good. Recommending to my friends and excited for more.” 

       -Yelp review on our  all night descent 

It began with setting up a mechanical advantage to be able to pull the ropes with more force. When that didn’t work, I put Dane on belay on one side as he ascended the other. He thought he freed them, and I did too. The rope was budging little by little with our two to one pulley system. We did a strange dance of squatting, standing, jumping, and kicking off the wall trying to put our weight into the system. Inch by inch, squat by squat, it slowly wormed its way up the wall. Our efforts took the rope’s end thirty or so feet above us until it stopped budging. Alas, the glorious easy pull remained elusive. It was my turn to ascend the ropes and investigate the situation. First, I re climbed the beginning of the twelfth pitch, this time feeling more terrified of the mountain than connected to it - or perhaps that is just a more difficult to digest form of connection, it is certainly a hearty form of connection. Dane’s shouts of encouragement were very, very sincere once again. I got to the rope and ascended it back to the ledge where my mouse friend lived. He must’ve been sleeping; I hope our stuck ropes didn’t keep him up. Our issue was obvious and our attempted solution of pulling really really hard and bouncing and bouncing had only made it worse: the ropes were wrapped around each other thirty or forty times, creating so much friction they would not pull. Wrap by wrap, I unwound them, and they pulled freely. Once again, the rock pirates found themselves “YAR”ing  at more ocean and waves like it was buried treasure. Their oars were wet again, paddling toward more ocean and waves as fast as their cramping arms would allow. 

That first flavour punch brought us to about two AM. It felt good to be moving downward once, and then twice more as the next rappel went off without a hitch aside from a stuck rope that was a mere tease at something more flavourful. Third time is most certainly the charm in the game of character building. It was Dane’s turn to ascend the rope, and this time the appropriate one to ascend was the eight millimetre one and not the nine point nine. I gave him a fist bump, reminded him to have fun, and watched the Great Dane go to work in the darkness above me. I fell asleep in my harness, and dreamt I was in Mason’s cozy van, softly giggling with love and holding her a little tighter. I awoke softly, believing my dream was a reality.

       “I would definitely order the “think you’re in a warm van spooning a soulmate and then           waking up with hundreds of feet of blue air below your now numb legs as your friend is         nervously ascending a skinny, and stuck rope above you.” The flavour was intense!”             -Yelp review from another satisfied visitor

Dane soon reported that the ropes looked fine beside a couple of high friction edges and chicken-head features. The friction was enough that they simply wouldn’t pull. His solution was to throw one of the ropes down to me, and do two single rope rappels (one off a single bolt, big YAR) back down to me with the other. He executed it seamlessly. The prince slayed the dragon and the princess was another rappel! The blue of the sky had the navy of faded denim. Day was slowly approaching. We threw the ropes again, and rappelled to the bivouac ledge on pitch five.

       “The “stuck ropes” just tasted so good that we had to come back for more! Highly                   recommend upgrading to the “chopped ropes”! A little more expensive but so worth it!”         -Yelp review, this is one of those ones where you scroll a little too far. It is deeply rooted in four am insanity.

Dane busied himself with chopping the supremely stuck rope and I rigged another rappel, this time off a tree. It was rhythmic, but not like the smoothness of the climbing which felt like Yanni playing Santorini at the Acropolis. The tune of the ropes getting stuck was more like a fat boy learning to play the clarinet: frantic, confused, and violent without Mal intent. You dance not for the music per se, but for the experience of dancing to a fat kid playing the clarinet. Also, one can always dance the dance and not always choose the music. 

“Nat. You won’t believe this. We have had a stroke of luck!”

“You know Dane, I really do appreciate your commitment to morale. I am excited to see what bullshit you have in store for me.”

“I am not kidding!”

“You’re a great friend Dane. It is nice to be able to joke about this kind of situation.”

“Get down here! I am not kidding!”

I couldn’t believe what I saw. On the anchor of the third pitch, we saw shiny carabiners, a clean sling, and a brand new, unchopped rope tied in a figure-eight on a bight and going to the darkness, and presumably the ground. I thought this was another spooning-in-a-cozy van situation. I rubbed my eyes but it wouldn’t go away. Dane hopped on and shortly after whooped and hollered that he was on the ground. It was five forty five in the morning. I rappelled quickly to him, speaking joyous bullshit in a pseudo German accent that my mountain-man alter ego, Gunter (goon-TAH), sports. It was over. The fat kid had run out of breath and stopped playing his clarinet, and the fat lady was singing. 

The fat lady sounds a little like elevator music when you’ve been on the edge of your seat trying to guess what note is going to come out of that red pudgy face and those committed eyes. That being said, her notes were well received and I’m glad she was able to belt them out. They really do compliment each other; the highs, lows, and random twists of a good mixtape.

Dane and I met our fixed rope heroes at their bivouac near the base of the climb. We thanked them a lot and chatted about the climb as they cooked breakfast and prepared for an ascent of their own. We walked out to the light of a new day and zero concept of time. Our stoke was unwavering throughout the night (admittedly interrupted with outbursts of swearing and tiptoeing the line of entertaining thoughts of “I wish”) and I can say that  both of us thoroughly enjoyed both the day of climbing and the night of descending. It is strange though, that we like that kind of stuff. 

So the two rock pirates returned to land twenty seven hours after setting sail. They seem far too empty handed and dirty for their light faces and big toothy grins. Yet, they go on and on about the treasures they discovered, and discuss where in the ocean the others may lie.

YAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRR! 

The Rat

   I don't know how a pack rat makes a vertical pilgrimage to a ledge two hundred metres above a glacier. Even more confusing was its plump state; perhaps it is a commuter rat and we were intruding on its desolate, but safe suburbia. Though I was the first to the ledge, Jordan was the first human it came into contact with. Maybe the first in a while. Maybe the first ever. Before Jordan's arrival it was it and I on the ledge. I had slumped into pack rat suburbia with cramped hands that acted on routine. Thus, as I fixed one rope and set the other up for a belay, I drifted.

   A blue sky briskly moving through the colour wheel to its nightly black refuge.
   The constant chill of the mountains. The one that symbolizes everything that is beautiful about discomfort; the conductor to a symphony of wilderness basking in its stand-alone stage time without the sun.

   It doesn't feel like that though. Cold doesn't feel like a brilliant conductor serenading you. Maybe it should, but it doesn't. It feels like a dull discomfort. More like a price of admission than the main event. That being said, it is undeniably a part of the magic of the mountains, and it too should be romanticized.

   I drifted deeper into dreamlike exhaustion. The glacier looked more like a frequently drifting ocean, occasionally gently crashing into the neighbouring spires. My eyes were brought back to focus by the rhythmic clicking of an ascender on a rope. Jordan noticed the rat soon after his arrival. The warmth of his friendship felt good. On the pitch up to the ledge, I stood up on a block so big that I couldn't even fathom it ever moving. It didn't even cross my mind. Then, after carelessly traversing on it searching for the right path, it pivoted. My ignorance evolved to sinking realization, and I scurried. At the most, it moved an insecure man's six inches. It was like a giant stretching in the light of early morning, and then deciding to sleep in. The path I had chosen was wrong however, and soon I was down climbing back to the block with a heavy understanding of the situation that I found myself in: Between pack rat suburbia and I sat, with an unknown level of security, the block. I sobbed at the bleak situation I found myself deeply committed in. Even down climbing further would involve yarding on the block. I'd already backed off of one pitch. Jordan and Jaron had been bold princes for the last two days. I thought of Jordan deep in an off width amidst a bugaboo blizzard. With his last piece of protection seemingly in a different time zone, he pressed on. The blizzard continued, as did we. Jaron didn't look at the shit piece of gear that he knew he had stand on, but he did stand on it. He didn't shy away from insecurity. It was my turn to bear the load. I sobbed a little more. I tried to be ginger. The moment I feared so much was over before I knew it. I ended up in a finger lock. The block stayed put.

   I didn't want to sit alone with my spiralling mind now that it had snapped back to reality, and was glad Jordan and soon Jaron were there with rational voices. Our hands continued their independent action. Sleeping arrangements were arranged. Food was cooked. Water was drank nearly dry. Whiskey was drank completely dry. I didn't dislodge the block. I didn't kill myself. I didn't kill my friends.

   I wonder if the pack rat ever had any close calls during its life in the mountains. There were stories in those beady eyes. There had to be. It lived a life that we had planned for. A life that we could only maintain for a few days. I wonder if those close calls sit with the rat; if they morph into demons that it'll have to face. I didn't fall asleep to these wonders. I fell asleep paranoid about the pack rat crawling on my face to the melody of Jordan reading Slaughterhouse Five.

   "Guys, do you want to just finish the rest of the water?" Jaron was the voice of all of our dry mouths and sponged minds; betrayed by the sweet nectar of Alberta Premium. We all congregated from sleep to the Nalgene watering hole and wandered back to rest through the grasses of talk of shooting stars zooming above us.

   The pack rat was the next alarm clock. I awoke to my feet being gnawed at through my sleeping bag. I swore and kicked and it scurried. My ruckus woke my friends.

  I wonder if it planned to wake us up; if it knew of the majesty we were missing out on. The three of us sat still in the serenity. Millions of different worlds looked upon our ledge. Shooting stars were paintbrush strokes. Another brush was bristled vibrantly with the green of the Aurora Borealis. Standing watch was a harvest moon, a single dot from a brush well soaked with orange. Its faint light glistened the spires, and the rat, running back to a crack for safety. It seemed unbothered by the scene.

   I don't know how a pack rat makes a vertical pilgrimage to a ledge two hundred metres above a glacier. The why is still confusing.

   I don't know how the block didn't kill us all, and I don't know why it didn't. If I'm this confused I can't imagine the perplexity it feels. After all, it is a rock. Perhaps it is best not to ponder.

   The how in adventuring is often a puzzle, but the pieces are all there.
   The why can be written in big, bold, letters right in front of your face, and it can be almost impossible to find.

   As I gazed, completely affected into the natural night sky; as I shared pack rat suburbia beside three beautiful souls, I began to see big, bold, letters.
 
 
 

An ode to the community, and a trip to China.

“He seems to be here quite a bit. I think it would be worth it.”

We’d later become good friends, though I liked “Luke from the Chinook desk” already; he was supporting my father’s decision of buying me a year long membership to the gym. Two and a half years have whizzed by since that fateful transaction. Luke may be prophetic, or perhaps just a good employee but indeed, it was certainly worth it. The blur since that fateful day has been one of finding a perpetually growing tribe and experiencing life with them through our art: Climbing (though my “art” is often rather reminiscent of a flightless and dying bird). Two and a half of years of climbing, and two and a half years largely comprised of immense joy. The people that make up the Calgary Climbing Centre experience have not only shown me climbing as a vehicle to many more important things, but have helped, and continue to help me on my path.

The folks that took me outside, told me to squeeze my core, and caught idiotic gear ripping falls are the reason that I write this in a train station in Lijiang, China, fresh off a month of climbing magnificent sandstone in the eastern foothills of the Himalaya. THE HIMALAYA!!!!!!!! I still cannot believe it is a dream manifested.

An underwhelming mountain whose sheer existence has been far too romanticized to ever be a let down. Photo: Kyle Martino.

Kyle Martino and I’s adventure in China is the culmination of the effect of friendship. The space under the wings of good people is chalked with teaching moments, inspiration to be better, and the tools to spread wings of your own. This is what I have found, almost entirely thanks to the CCC community. Bear with me, for this tangent style of writing is the only way I know how to express both the idea that it takes a village, and the ideas that the village has bestowed upon me.

A simple scroll through the CCC blog reveals an inspiring fact: Climbing adventures, and adventures of any sort, are incredibly accessible. Time and money can be massive constraints of course, but guidance and support are available in spades within the community. A passive thought recollects memory after memory of a helping hand. If the thought were explored it would dominate this already spiralling piece. Though I fear sounding holier-than-thou, it is imperative we all understand that our dreams do not have to remain dreams. If that gumby with the pink shirt and weird hair that you hear power screaming on the Rocky moonboard WAY TOO OFTEN can do it, then you probably can too. This blog itself reveals that our adventure is not the exception in the community, BUT THE RULE! Many wonderful people are going for it, and it is an honour to share stories with them and try to emulate their climbing prowess. Of course, I cannot forget the privilege I posses of being able to choose to scrape by and devote my life to the joy of climbing, but it must be said that dreams do not have to be dreams. If you can and you want too, then for what it is worth, I think you should. Anyways, we went to China, and it was a fantastic adventure.

Kyle Martino, awestruck. The Dinner Wall, Liming, China.

Through tired eyes, the sandstone walls turreted around the village of Liming were grand to a hallucinogenic level. They rocked to the blue sky and dripped with streaks of black, yellow, and white. The adventurous travel made appreciation of the scene easy. We had arrived by the seat of our pants, but arrived nonetheless! After leaving Vancouver in the rearview, the unknown became the normal. At one point we were lost in the metropolitan sprawl of Kunming, and saved by a guardian angel named Jo. Another time, I spoke to a cabbie’s friend on Facetime to try and translate directions. When a woman in Lijiang shouted “Liming” at us and ushered us into her SUV, we knew it was our last card to play and hopped in with trust in humanity. We arrived in Liming due to the unconditional kindness of people.

Transit Collage. Photos: Kyle Martino and myself.

Though zombied from the travel, we couldn’t resist the urge to climb rock. With a few tired pitches, we warmed our feet and hands to the beating they would take for the next month. The magical rhythm of the climbing life began to roll. Alongside a wonderful international crew we explored the area. On our first full day, Kyle onsighted a rig reminiscent of a world cup boulder: “Eagle Eyed Super Hawk”! It was a treat to watch him run across a slab and catch the jug with wildly swinging legs and viced hands. Kyle grew up in the CCC team system, and the gym style suited him well. Chris Meginbir, an old coach of Kyle’s, once told me a story of a very young Kyle completely frozen in fear part way up the Stronghold wall. Years later, the petrified became rather dynamic. After catching the dyno jug, Kyle fought for a hand heel match that had nothing to do with hip flexibility, and everything to do with sheer determination; five minutes must have passed as Kyle WILLED and COMMANDED his heel to place. “Fudge” was the closest the model of a man got to expletives during the process. Unique tenacity! Later in the trip, the once scared kid in the gym pumped off a steep layback and caught a cool twenty feet of air.

First day finger guns!!!! Photo: Kyle Martino

We flew often. It was his Kyle’s first experience with splitter cracks, and learning through objective failure became a central theme. It was inspiring to watch Kyle go from nursing a bruised ego to changing his mindset to a learning focus. Going from sport to splitter shouldn’t be easy on your idea of success, and frankly, it isn’t. It is a damn hard thing to confront, and I’m proud of Kyle for riding out the choppy wave. Besides, despite what Kyle will say, the man rocked up and crushed.

His mental strength inspired me to try to find some of my own, as I am no expert in the subject. After a few days of exploring, I got on a line I’d dreamed about in Canada: Air China. It motivated many hangboarding sessions at Rocky, and now it was right in front of me. As I gawked, I realized the expectation of inspiration is futile, and that it must come organically. Regardless, as soon as I pulled on I knew I wanted to learn the dance of this rock.

While the trip rolled on, I devoted half of my days to Air China, and the other half to exploring with strangers that were quickly becoming great friends. Fun adventure was found everywhere from hidden valleys to proud, striking features. Everyday was a crag party. Laughter was constant, as was hip hop, metal, and contagious effort. It was a vibe conducive to taking climbing seriously, and taking ourselves incredibly far from seriously. I did the likely first naked ascent of the crag classic “Faraway Corner”, laughing the whole way. Kyle, notorious for his puns found his stride on the other side of the world. Though often received with a shaking head it was nice to know he was thriving. Those who hadn’t heard his thousands of puns adored it. It is a small example that shines light on the idea that when we leave our homes, we often find that through the risk of loneliness we expose ourselves to more human connection. The newly sewn threads only makes the preexisting stronger. Watching your friends grow, and growing alongside them is a beautifully large facet of climbing. Every night, our crew of psyched serendipity would share stories over meals. Fist bumps were ALWAYS exploded! ALWAYS! The rhythm of presence was bumping, and we were dancing. Coffee. Beautiful approach. Climbing hard (for us). Nourishing with amazing MSG packed food. Card games. Sharing stoke. El vida es magnífico!

Chumming over weird music videos. Photo: Pavel Toropov

Of course, our dancing feet did get tired. Rest days were more and more frequent as the month rolled on. The village was vibrant, and the days of relaxing were appreciated. The market came to town every tenth day and this occasion always called for rest. Market day cannot be justified with my words which is perhaps bad news for the quality of this blog! It is a clash of worlds. At one table you could buy a phone case, and at the next a live pig. To be apart of this explosion of culture and diverse representations of the human experience is something that I am grateful for experiencing. I probably would not have experienced this if it wasn’t for climbing.

Spot the foreigners. Market day in Liming!

Liming dance party!

Our trip was coming to its conclusion, and I was having so much fun on Air China that it was time to prioritize it. During this time, Kyle left his mark on Liming, climbing a first ascent at a developing sport climbing crag (an example of the geological diversity of the area) called El Dorado. It was Kyle’s first first ascent! “Fools Gold” is a bouldery gem nestled in the hills of Yunnan, bolted by a Minnesotan named Kip, and climbed by an Albertan named Kyle. Badass! Inspiring! Meanwhile, I found myself constantly going through the waves of making, and then acting on the conscious decision that love is a more powerful motivator than fear. I love Air China. I am scared of Air China. Top roping was never done without nervous excitement for what would surely follow. When it was clear that excuses were running thin, our friend Eliot broke the seal and pulled the rope. The trail was blazed. We whipped. We whooped. I constantly reminded myself I wanted the full experience that the toprope couldn’t offer. There comes a time where if one wants to genuinely experience, one must be willing to take flight. The magnificence of Air China comes from its minimalistic beauty; more opportunity for gear and it wouldn’t demand your soul and mind work together, less and it would be dangerous. The rock allows a sequence of improbable, low percentage moves, uniquely above bomber but spaced gear. It dances a rare and thin line. Air China is a unicorn: it must be believed in to be seen.

Firefighter Kyle on some beautiful lines at El Dorado. Photo 1 : MIke Dobie, Photo 2: Drew Marshall

Each move is beautiful, and should be treated as so. Each lead attempt is, as Voytek Kurtyka says, “a classical opposition of self preservation”. The route is so physically on the edge of my present personal possibility that in order to even get above my gear, I must want to do the moves with all my being. The commitment the moves demand pounce on a shred of doubt, and reward a mind at peace with all outcomes. For me, it is the opportunity for growth, beauty of the rock and movement, the necessity for one to climb with their soul that draws me to Air China. One of the greatest lessons I’ve been taught, and would consider vital to longevity in climbing is a Knut Rokne proverb something under these lines:

“Climbing is 99% failure, and 1% success. If you do not learn to enjoy failure, 99% of the time you’ll be unhappy.”

In the eleventh hour, lacking the skin and gumption to try again, I called for the stick clip. Kyle passed up the loyal stick clip I named Kenneth while aid soloing the pitch and going crazy in the sun. I pulled him up, then thought better. I pulled on to free the moves. A right foot smear. A wild bump from crimp to crimp. A moment of weightlessness. Back on the rope. I stick clipped with peace. I had failed. I had learned. I had fun.

Air China. Psyche manifested. The bolt in the first photo had to be stick clipped on lead. A beautiful, and ongoing process! Photos: Drew Marshall

    Kyle and I found raw adventure in China. Thanks to a loving push from our community, we stepped into the unknown. Out of our comfort zones, a place where real life flourishes with flowers from fertile soil rich with risk, failure, learning, friendship and motivation from the purest source: Love. A slice of real life is served graciously by the rock and readily available to anyone. Liming is one of the many places you can find it.

Kyle and I would like to express our deep gratitude to everyone that helped get us to China. Specifically Simon, Walson, and the CCC team. Broadly, every person that makes up our villages, and every person that leads by example with grace and love.