The Gunslinger

I love Murrin Park. Seven years ago, eighteen and invincible (read: dumb) I did my first 5.12 trad route here, The Oracle. It was the first time I rehearsed a semi-dangerous route on top rope, and I fell in love with that style. It was also desperate and a big deal for me. The year after I did the 5.12b classic The Masses Are Asses, jumping the gun on starting to lead it in order to keep up with my stronger friends, and nearly peeling off while placing a crucial RP. Then it was its neighbour, Coitus Interruptus, then Flight of the Challenger. All with distinct technical lessons and memories with friends. 

Chris and I started trying The Gunslinger two years ago, around the time I finished my journey on the Cobra Crack. I was looking for a new project, but mostly I think Chris and I needed an activity to do together. We had recently reconciled after a falling out, and had barely spoken in two years. The Gunslinger was right up both of our alleys (lots of top-roping, close to the car, hard for us, scary, technical). I met Chris just up the hill, back at The Oracle when I was eighteen. He was there when I did Masses. I guess it just made sense to be at Murrin.

And boy, were we at Murrin a lot; a few times a week when it was cool enough over the last few summers (and sometimes when it was too hot—we even rigged a fan to blow on the route once, which I think, along with the rest of our horrible ethics—a kneepad, velcroing cams, headpointing—appalled Jim Herson, alas, fair enough). I’m not sure how many sessions we put into it, but a lot. A lot. It wasn’t always just us. My girlfriend did Masses, just down the hill, which was nice. But she sent quite fast and then it was back to just being Chris and I and the odd friend we could convince. Our friend Connor also joined us, but only for like, four or five days before he sent. Connor is a tank, so we were just glad to have him for that long.

The gear at Murrin is really strange. Sometimes seemingly bomber gear in the glacier-polished rock slips out. The Gunslinger felt like a step-up in learning how to make spicy trad-climbs safer. For example, there’s a #2 in the middle of the route that the previous (much stronger) ascensionists used—when we tested it on top rope, sometimes it would hold, and sometimes it wouldn’t. Instead, I ended up finding this really strange large offset nut. It looked horrible and was fickle, but it was bomber. How do we know? We threw a haul bag full of rocks onto it from the top of the cliff (with another haul bag on belay) and it held! I also found a way to place a quite good 0.2/0.3 cam in the upper headwall, which in theory takes the edge off. It is good, but again, fickle to place: I watched the piece rip on Connor before his redpoint (and safely land on the nut), a reminder to make sure I got it right.

Things came together slowly, and while I was quite close a few times last season, the air was kind of taken out of our sails after our friend David Tan died. We tried anyway, but we were both distracted with the sudden impact of grief. Then I had to leave for school.

This year, our sessions were almost entirely after work and I found it difficult to find flow as my mind was often frazzled. I sent on top-rope on my first try, which was promising, but placing the gear really adds an element. It took a few sessions to get that specific fitness and have my head screwed on tight to start leading again. I also had to meditate with the fact that I might not find flow, I might be pumped and scared at the top, and that was okay. Well, that ended up being the case. When I did it last night, I was pumped and slightly distracted at the top, but also intentionally one or two percent more committed than on previous tries. I squeaked it out and screamed at the top like I never have. Relief. Fear. Excitement. I guess all that energy has to go somewhere.

I am forever intrigued with the idea that routes serve as static backgrounds to dynamic lives. These lines, in that way, become public places that hold different meaning and memory for every person that interacted with them: a restaurant might be where you got engaged, where another person heard the worst news of their life, and where another person had a non-memorable meal. My ascent of The Gunslinger is the fifth, I think. It isn’t my story to tell, but my understanding of the first free ascent is that there was conflict about whose first free ascent it was to do. I guess I think it's interesting that this chapter of The Gunslinger was the opposite, and originally had very little to do with the prize of redpointing and was more about reconciliation between two old friends. At the end of the day though, Chris and I are fiends for this stuff (top-roping, we’re fiends for top-roping) and while we could’ve just gone fishing, we went climbing. I’m glad that my perception of friendship has evolved beyond needing to include some kind of climbing partnership, but I also don’t think there’s anyone I’d rather have holding my rope on a route like that besides Chris. I hope I get to hold the rope for his imminent redpoint!

Thanks to everyone that was a part of this process, and to Unparallel Canada for the many shoes.

Nerdy Details and SPRAY: 

The Gunslinger break down as such: 

• An opening V3 or so that you protect with a crash pad

• A short section of 12c or so that is probably the most dangerous part of the route. There’s a fixed nut here. I left a quickdraw on it so I could clip it a little lower. I’ve hung the draw as well, but I wanted the draw there, so I left it. There are many ways to improve my style, and that’s ok.

• Next is a V8/9 traversing boulder on underclings and interesting directional feet, with good small gear. This was a low percentage boulder for me right until the end.

• The boulder deposits you at a kneebar rest that I don’t find very restful. You plug in a nest here. In the end it was an Orange Totem and a Black Totem and they’re bomber—a large offset nut is also an option here.

• After some setup moves is another crux involving underclings, a far left foot, and a very tensioned reach into a finger lock. It remains on you and becomes a crimp layback sequence to get out of the finger lock. The 0.2/0.3 goes here. Getting out of the finger lock is just as hard as getting into it and involves a choose-your-own adventure layback on shitty sidepulls. I think this section is also V8 or so. 

• This deposits you at another “rest” where you can stop and place a small piece. If you don’t place the 0.2/0.3, it’s pretty mandatory to put a small cam or nut here or risk a ground fall. The last few moves to the ledge are probably V3 or so—pretty hard with a pump, at least for me! 

Liberty Crack Free

For any folks scouring the internet for beta, I'll start with those details:

Shade at 1:00PM in mid July. Wait for shade! The sun is a deadly laser. 

Rack: 

-offset nuts.

-2x 0.1 - 0.5 (with offset cams to 0.3/0.4, they fit everywhere. C3s/Totems are also really nice for the pinscars)

-1x 0.75, 1, 3 (no #2 needed).

-14 draws or so, half of which should be slings.

    As you've probably already read elsewhere, the route eases off significantly after the fourth pitch. Hauling supposedly sucks, and would certainly be less fun. I'm curious as to what other free parties have done, but Drew and I lowered our bag from above the Lithuanian Lip as low as possible and then dropped the bag and tag line. We then carried onward with some water, layers, and approach shoes clipped to our harnesses. Hiking back up to the base at the end of the day isn't the end of the world, and is still probably faster than hauling would be. We were very lucky (and grateful) to have some new friends, Shelby and Adria, climbing Thin Red Line. They portered out our tag line and bag. We offered wine and snacks but ultimately it was out of the goodness of their hearts.

    You could do what we did (though ensure you have the right snacks to bribe fellow climbers), but we think it'd be best to forego the tagline and just lower loops to haul the short crux pitches. 

***

    My friend Drew Marshall and I spent the last two days (July 19 and 20) climbing in Washington Pass (also known as The WAP). We set our sights on Liberty Crack, a classic aid route on the east face of Liberty Bell that is now firmly established as a freeclimb. With the promise of an afternoon start and a mysterious roof crux nicknamed the 'Lithuanian Lip', we were psyched.

    Our strategy was to spend one afternoon working crux pitches 2 and 3, and then hopefully be prepared for a redpoint attempt the following day. It was a lovely weekend. We ran into some friends at the parking lot, met new friends, enjoyed leisurely mornings, and spent two awesome afternoons on that sweet, sweet WAP granite (granite pockets, what the fuck?!). 

    The Lithuanian Lip (pitch 2) is the first crux, and the hardest pitch on the route. As of July 2023, it is almost entirely on a mishmash of fixed gear (3 or so cams are needed above the lip). Being a roof and notoriously difficult for taller folk I envisioned scrunchy undercling. This was not the case, and I was pleasantly surprised to find the crux to be almost entirely on pinscars. Pinkie down, baby! I was glad we had given ourselves a day to work the moves, and I thoroughly enjoyed the session. Drew and I both found the difficulties to be getting into an undercling fingerlock in the roof, and then the classic crux establishing over the lip is just straight up hard. 

    We then turned our attention to the third pitch, a slab variation to the aid route's bolt ladder (which supposedly went free back in the day. Hell yeah, Brooke Sandahl!). I'm not much of a slab climber, but Drew Marshall and our friend Jacob Cook are, dare I say, on top of the slab game. Slab savants. Slab royalty. Baptists of friction. Crystal whisperers. You get the point.

    Lately, instead of swearing when I fall and am frustrated I just silently give the route two middle fingers. I did a lot of that on my first go, but learned a lot, and had fun better understanding what a 'good' foothold truly is. Drew kindly assured me that it was "actually pretty hard" but sorted out the moves pretty quick. Feeling content and excited to try to redpoint the next day, we descended at a leisurely time and enjoyed dinner and friendship at the Blue Lake Trailhead.

    Day 2 went strangely according to plan. It was awesome (and strange) to be hiking up to such a big objective at 12:30PM after a chill morning in town. I knew that doing the Lip pitch first try was probably crucial to continuing upward. It was a physical pitch, and I could see it getting harder and harder if attempts piled up.

    I executed this plan, though it was quite a fight! After getting established above the lip, I shoved a cam in the pod and entered a 5.12- exit sequence. It felt hard! Way harder than the day prior! I was too pumped and sweaty to stop and place a piece and committed to a final highstep that would see me through to the chains. By the skin of my teeth, I clipped the anchors and let out an excited cry. It was on! Drew had an excellent go, and couldn't quite figure out getting his feet above the lip. It was especially scrunchy for him; height is certainly a factor on this pitch.

    The slab pitch made me much more nervous than the Lip. After teetering across a traverse and up some small footholds, I lost track of my sequence and slipped off on my first go. I re-sorted my sequence and then lowered to the anchor to rest. Drew had a working go as well, and it appeared to be teed up for both of us. Again, I certainly did not enter any sort of flow state but managed to squeak out the pitch. Drew reminded me of my beta as I climbed, and I tried to block out any sort of negative thinking about the holds slipping. I have no idea how hard this pitch is, but I was very pleased with the lessons it taught me in footwork and belief. My friends Connor and Amity sent us their beta notes, which included something about "floating leftward" at the end of this pitch. While I can imagine floating this pitch, I felt like I more so resembled my Corgi when she was learning how to swim: she'd start out great, and then sort of tip over, but ultimately not drown. 

    "Yeah, I love easy slab climbing" -Drew Marshall, tongue-in-cheek, after I professed that the pitch may have been the hardest slab climb of my life. He, of course, fired it.

    It was strange to be actually sending. One 11+ is all that stood in the way. Beforehand, we did some hilarious shenanigans to rid ourselves of our haul bag and tagline. The tag didn't quite make it to the ground, but it was close enough. Drew dropped it and the bag flew to the ground. It was awesome.

    Drew sent the 11+ pitch on his second go, and I seconded the pitch cleanly. Be sure to keep your performance shoes on for this pitch, it is hard! After this pitch, the route changes significantly to long, moderate pitches on mostly good rock. It felt like climbing two routes in one. After I led up an easy 5.10 crack, Drew put on his guide's hat and set the tone, linking the next two pitches with a bit of simulclimbing. We carried on to the summit, moving to the rhythm of long pitches and a waning evening. It was sweaty, we were tired, and it was delightful. Calm evenings in the mountains hold such a fleeting sense of tranquility. I'm glad I was reminded of this, and how light it makes me feel. Drew and I summitted just as the sun began to drop below the mountains.

    I will probably forget the crux sequences over time, but I don't think I'll forget the summit sunset, or listening to Claire De Lune in the middle of the night as we descended back to the car. I'm realizing, more and more, that these inspiring objectives are just waypoints to orient my life. This was a really good one in the middle of a busy summer. 

The Cobra Crack

            In the spring of 2018, I was in Canmore, Alberta. I was housesitting. A few friends and I were gathered around the kitchen table drinking beers we’d found in the fridge, and watching Cracking Cobra, the short Eliza Earle film featuring Mason Earle climbing the Cobra Crack. Eighteen, a little buzzed, and fresh off my first climbing trip, I told my friend Luke that “I was going to live in Squamish until I did the Cobra Crack.” I had climbed one 5.12 sport route, and one 5.11 trad route. I moved to Squamish that spring and immediately walked up to the Cobra in the pouring rain. A few days later, I quickly forgot about the Cobra Crack after taking a 30 foot fall on the 10b second pitch of Angel’s Crest. I tried the Cobra after a few seasons, in 2020, and then dedicated myself from 2021 onward.

Well, it is spring 2023 now. I’m twenty three, writing this from a quiet corner of the climbing gym in Squamish. After two and a half years and probably sixty attempts, I climbed the Cobra Crack and am trying to wrap my head around those few minutes and the last few years.

I’ve long imagined what it would feel like to send the Cobra. I thought it’d be desperate, even when I sent, and honestly, I thought it’d be validating. Really, really validating. I mean, it’s the fucking Cobra Crack. When the long-awaited, long hoped for, dreaded, and seemingly heroic moment of sending actually came, it was very different.

It was nowhere near as epic as I imagined. I guess this makes sense. Over sixty or so attempts (and probably twenty one-hangs), it had been broken down and built back up. It more or less felt like any other redpoint attempt, only with more flow. The final go was the finishing touches to an iceberg of a process; how much different could it possibly be?

This is the longest project of my life and unknown terrain for me— I haven’t completed an academic process or any other massive creative project. In climbing (and I suppose life in general) we emphasize endings; there is a reason I haven’t written extensively about the things I’ve almost done over the last year. There’s a reason I’m writing about all of this now. I guess you don’t present a painting until it is finished, but maybe the final brush stroke is important, but not any more important than the rest. I’m not sure.

    It is strange that once something in life is over we are sometimes hit with a brief wave of clarity. With that clarity, I’ve seen regret. I’ve seen gratitude. I’ve seen ugly parts of myself and parts of myself that I am quite pleased with. This time, I see a lot of gratitude. I see a clear and stark reminder that once something is over, it is really over. Validation isn’t as sweet as you think it is going to be. Writing your name on a piece of wood really does feel as stupid as it sounds. Thus, all we have are the moments, and man, there were so many good moments on this journey. I was deeply, deeply in love with the Cobra Crack, and I see that clearly now.

With this emphasis in mind, I’ll try to spotlight the meat of the process before I verbally vomit up what it was like to actually send the thing. It is impossible to speak to the meaning of such an immense process; if you have the privilege, time, and motivation, I strongly recommend you run down a dream and find out for yourself. Here’s some random bits of information:

• The Cobra Crack is a really, really good rock climb. It is so much fun. And yes, you feel like a badass when you do the mono.

• I’ve probably thought about the Cobra Crack once every thirty minutes since September, 2020. It has been a constant in my life. It kept me company for two winters during which I specifically trained for it. Last year, I fell 7 times after the invert. In the context of rock climbing, I think that experience caused me to grow up a lot.

• I did so many fucking weight pull ups.

• I’ve probably scrawled COBRA CRACK on ten different journals as I logged feelings, attempts, and revelations (drive the knee, drive the knee!) 

• The Cobra gave me many new friendships. It steered my path into the direction of others. Corny, sure, but this was by far the best part. Stu. Andrew. Jérôme. Didier. Sam. Bailey. I’m looking at you! For the last little bit, I incidentally became the steward and would receive random texts from folks coming up to Squamish to try it. That was an honour, and one I’m glad to pass on! 

Anyway, when I did it, it didn’t feel much different than any other go. I was more in flow, more present than I’d ever been. When I got through the meat of the route, I was convinced I’d hung on the rope somewhere, and wasn’t actually sending. 

When I topped out, I wanted to feel elation and tried to feel elation but didn’t, really. I felt a sort of comforting heaviness, like a big blanket on a cold night. When I topped out, I thought about Stu—my guru and first friend on this journey—and felt an immense gratitude toward the Cobra Crack for bringing us together. I thought about my friends at the base, whooping up at me with delight. I thought about all the people I had shared that crag with over the last few seasons and how happy I was that it didn’t happen any earlier. I thought about what a fucking crazy journey it had been, and how beautiful it is that it doesn’t last forever. This translated into tears and saying “what the fuck” over and over again, trying to wrap my head around what just happened.

As I lowered, I felt happiness on the periphery but mostly foggy about what had just happened. It was like I had woken from a dream where I sent, and was still laying in bed wondering if it had actually happened. My friends were gracious with praise and I heard them but couldn’t feel the words they were saying. All I could do was chainsmoke and shake my head, laughing. I wrote my name on the infamous board, right below Stu’s (man, I wish Travis could’ve seen that, Stu, he’d be SO psyched to see our names back to back, and maybe a bit pissed we signed it in the first place). Still, it all felt like I had watched someone else climb the route, and now they were going through the ritual at the base of the crag.

I’m so thankful for this chapter in my life, and for whatever comes next. The Cobra Crack—like all good things in life—is certainly something to be experienced and not consumed. It won't be linear, but I’ll try to keep this in mind.

Before we walked down, I looked at the route and thought of an Elliot Smith lyric: This is not my life, it’s just a fond farewell to a friend.

The Swinging Pendulum

            I haven’t written in a long time, so forgive me if this is disorganized, tangented, and so riddled with half-baked thoughts it makes no sense to anyone but me.

Recently, I had a piece I wrote about free climbing a new route in Zion published in Climbing. While I was working through the revisions with my friend (and now digital editor of Climbing, so cool) Anthony Walsh, I struggled to recognize myself in the words I had written a year ago. Those words were so illuminated. It was so evident that my eyes were still wide from that experience and the light they were reflecting is something quite momentary. I like the metaphor of big, expanding experiences to be like a huge knock to the pivot point of the pendulum that is our lives—which I think I heard from an interview with Margot Talbot. For a moment, the knock totally changes us; on one end, that knock is delivered by things like our loved ones dying, or the end of a relationship. On the other, there’s falling in love, or, fuck, putting up a new route in Zion if you’re a basic ass bitch like me. Full circle, when I was editing those words the other day, I noticed that I had written the words right after one of those massive knocks. My pendulum had been abruptly changed and was swinging to new, illuminating heights. I remember spending an entire day writing that first draft in a cafe in Eugene, Oregon on my way home to Squamish.

All this being said, after the initial force of the experience, our lives do maintain a resonating imprint the experience had on us. It isn’t always good. Hopefully it is.

    I’m certainly not in one of those “I have all the answers to the big questions in life” moments. After spending another Autumn trading future financial freedom for finger cracks, friends, sketchy haircuts, and a surprising amount of techno music, I am now paying the fucking price. The classic, privileged, bullshit I seem to set myself up for every damn year of my adult life. I am laughing to myself as I write this: you chose this, dog! You so knowingly chose this! The last few winters out west were actually quite nice, thanks to good friends, temperate (for Canada) climate, and a job I loved. This winter isn’t so bad either, and I’m actually quite happy and well, but man, the east is harsh. It is flat, and wet, and don’t let them fool you, greyer than the west coast! No fucking joke! Again, I have good friends here—namely an awesome girlfriend—and again, I’m actually quite happy, and profoundly aware that I made my weird, Montreal-in-the-winter bed and am sleeping in it. So, take the drama with a grain of salt cause I’m doing just fine and have a lot going for me, but I am certainly not that wide eyed young man scrawling pages upon pages about enlightening experiences and being in tune with the mountains.

    No, I’m that young man that either borrows his girlfriend’s car, bikes, gets rides from friends, or takes transit to work, all of which are about an hour most days. On these transit rides, I listen to The Daily if it seems interesting and not too depressing. I people watch, which is really fun and wholesome. For example, I totally profiled this goth-looking guy the other day: amidst all the various spiked accessories (which might also just be business-casual in Montreal, je pas) he was wearing these big headphones, and I playfully pondered what heinous My Chemical Romance song he was listening to. Big words illuminated on his phone (right beside me, yes, I peeked, and you have too!) as he checked the lyrics to the song he was listening to, and it was worship music! Worship music! Something like Give yourself to Him, and He will rise you out of the ashes or something. Huh.

    I’ve also refamiliarized myself with having to resist the urge to quit my job every fifteen minutes. I haven’t felt this way in a few years, and I’m very grateful for that, cause wow, is it ever heinous! I’m working at a factory that builds climbing walls (that shall remain nameless to protect what little dignity I have). The people are great. The work is physical though, and potentially wrecking my body to build climbing walls sometimes feels overwhelmingly arbitrary. Sometimes I can feel the sands of time slipping through my metal-stained hands and I remember that nothing is free. I spent my fall climbing in some amazing places alone and with my friends: La Gorges Du Verdon, Céüse, Squamish, Smith Rock, Trout Creek, Moab, Indian Creek. I got my ass kicked, put some routes down, and got close to a couple of major, major dream routes. I ate a lot of potatoes with my girlfriend, was a shitty friend during a gas station incident, attended a hair dying party, and watched a 12-foot tall effigy of tumbleweeds burn into the night with the Lord of The Rings soundtrack blasting. It was awesome! But it wasn’t free! And spring ain’t free either! So, I cut metal and listen to Serial, Dungeons & Daddies, Crackdown, TED Radio Hour, various social work podcasts, and way too many climbing podcasts. The business is conducted entirely in French, which has been eye-opening to the level of privilege I have held around language in my life. Even with colleagues that are quite kind, it has been quite lonely. At first, I tried really hard to listen and comprehend what was happening at meetings, or at the small talk in the lunchroom. Now during meetings, I close my eyes and climb The Cobra Crack, or The East Face, or this route Hoai-Nam and I put anchors on in the Adirondacks. At lunch, sometimes I try to pay attention, and sometimes I read my book. I’m constantly checking forecasts and my bank account. My mind wanders between climbs, school, and the people I miss on the west coast—who probably have no idea that I miss them! Hopefully they do. Anway, I try not to quit my job! 

You’re too broke Nat. Don’t do it. Just keep your head down, do a decent job, cut some metal, drill the t-nuts, and go home. Stop texting your friends to see if they want to go climb El Cap in January. Stop scheming trips to Mexico. You’re too damn broke.

No, I am not that young man writing page after page of enlightened experiences. 

            I am that young man writing essay after essay (but I’m not as focused and grind-oriented as this look-at-me-busting-my-ass-blog-post may have you thinking, in fact I spend many nights eating microwave popcorn and watching Kim’s Convenience with Hoai-Nam). I quite like school and am really looking forward to a career in social work. It has been interesting to go back to work doing something I don’t really care about. I want to be a social worker, and I know that now. That’s motivating. I also quite like how the content of social work classes are so focused on being aware of your presence in a situation, and understanding how situations come to be (structural, organizational, individual influences). I like being switched on to looking at myself and the world through the lenses of power, interaction, and individual stories. For example, after a few months of working in a mellow workplace where I don’t speak the language but can quickly have things translated for me, I cannot imagine how lonely it would be to immigrate to a country where you do not speak the language. I cannot imagine how lonely it would be to be homeless in that country, how difficult it would be to meaningfully advocate for yourself, or articulate the nuances of your personality. There is a lot more to that subject. A lot more. 

Climbing, as always, plays a major role in my life. Be warned, you might have to cut the crust off of this paragraph to get to the good bits. 

            Besides a week during the holidays in the New River Gorge—which was profoundly energizing—our outdoor climbing has mostly been in upstate New York. Whenever the forecast is around 3C or so, Hoai-Nam and I have been going to The Spider’s Web. The Adirondacks are amazing. The climbing is world class, and the beauty is accompanied by a lot of wonderful silence. In November, I checked out an unclimbed line left of Zabba. It is aesthetic and features cool, manageable movement. There was enough gear, but not enough daylight to sort it all out in the day and a half of time we had. It was an awesome weekend. 

        We tried to go back a few weeks later and froze our optimistic asses off. I tried to climb and yelped from the cold.

        We also tried to go back last week and found the approach to be quite engaging! The rime covered talus field made for 5.12 approaching conditions. When we arrived at the crag, the sun soon disappeared and the cold set in. After climbing the classic 5.10- TR and finding it quite icy in places, the future of the rig was uncertain. All that time in the shop thinking about my mortality was adding up though, and I was having a difficult time differentiating between it actually being too cold and me not seizing the moment. I hummed and hawed, and eventually agreed to set up a top rope. Alas, the top of the climb was covered in rime, and ice choked where the protection would be. With some sadness, winter came crashing down on me. My lifeline, this neat little project, was choked with ice! And so was I! I narrowly avoided an existential crisis and was soothed by constantly volleying with Hoai-Nam “that it is just great to be out” (which it is) and, of course, gas station Mac n Cheese. American comfort. 

            Satire aside, reality felt heavy when I understood that this route would have to wait till spring. It felt like this microcosm. That this climbing part of me, of my spirit, the part that wrote those passionate words about The Crack in The Cosmic Egg would have to wait till spring. Heavy.

            It manifests in different ways though. I’m training my ass off again this winter and really enjoying it. My friend Stu made me a training plan last winter, and I tweaked it slightly and have found it to really be working well for me. I’ve also been enjoying a sort of less neurotic type of discipline, which I’ve found more manageable and motivating. I get my workouts done, but I’m more flexible in how I arrange them according to how I feel. I’m also more graceful with myself when I don’t feel particularly strong. Showing up is what matters, as with most things in life, I am learning. Also, and here’s the crusty bit, when did everyone start filming themselves doing stuff in the climbing gym? Also, and here’s another crusty bit, if I had a nickel for everytime I’ve seen a gymbro walk by the training area on their way to the change room and try to do a one arm pull up, I could quit my fucking job and go climbing in the sun somewhere.

It is interesting, cause this certainly isn’t some proclamation that the best days are behind me and blah blah I hate climbing, myself, and anyone doing something interesting. Not at all. It is just an ode to the seasons of life. 

We live on this swinging pendulum. Right now, I’m at the point you just read about, living in a city “where if you aren’t mean, you will never find parking,” (Bui, 2023). Of course I find myself both preparing and yearning for the swing of the pendulum: For the times that work feels meaningful, for the times that there is air below my feet and I am inspired and challenged, for the times I am more often with the people I love, in places I love. But right now, I’m doing weighted pull ups. I’m scheming like you only scheme in the winter. I’m writing essays. I’m not talking very much, cause I only understand what is going on around me about 50% of the time. I’m playing Dungeons and Dragons. I’m eating brunch with my girlfriend. I’m leaning over a little too far on the subway to read some curveball GOSPEL lyrics on some dudes phone?

And the pendulum will swing, and swing, and swing, pushed by the variable momentum of life. 

The Creek :

 Two years ago I was here in Indian Creek, nursing sore fingers and sitting at a campfire. One night, I exited the campfire early and retired to my minivan, determined to write about Indian Creek, determined to put its magic into elegant and original words. For a long time I gazed through my windshield at the fire and my friends and... nothing. I couldn't write anything. 

    Robert James Waller has this great commencement speech on Romance where he says that "romance dances just beyond the firelight" and that any attempt to pin it down will only destroy it, or at least not do it justice.

    I know better now than to gaze at my friends and attempt to put this place into words. For four seasons I have grown up with these people. They've taught me how to ringlock, do a bodyshot, persevere, and be vulnerable. On paper, I guess that the "magic" of Indian Creek -what brings the people- is the orbital force of debauchery and splitter cracks. All I'll dare to say out of respect for the fragility of romance, is that there is so, so much more. These things -the ridiculousness and the fantastic climbing- are simply doors, and if you dare to cross through them you open up worlds of opportunity that just don't exist in places without desert sunsets and wax boxes. 

On Climbing and Woodworking

 I’m not much of a carpenter, but when it was time to replace my minivan home of two years with another, I knew it was time to become. In my last minivan, the brain trust of my father and grandfathers— eager to help their son, albeit confused about the merit of the task, built a humble and practical bed. I just held flashlights and 2x4s. 

Two years that were filled to the brim and overflowing went by, and my van died in the fall. I cried. When a cash-for-car's tow truck came and picked it up, I realized the day after that I had forgotten to take off the license plate. I called them, expecting to unscrew the license plate off my trusty old friend in his industrial graveyard, and say goodbye one last time.

"It got picked up yestahday?" The woman on the other end of the phone asked me, with what I believed to be both chewing gum and coffee in her mouth. I confirmed, and she laughed, and chewed the gum voraciously. "Honey, that thing was crushed this morning! It is a cube now! Sorry sweethaht!"

My beloved home of two years was now a cube. It was time to move on.

Now, another minivan sits parked in my dad’s shop. It is clean and empty. This time, I want to be the one to fill it. My dad knew this, and acknowledged it by showing me how to use the table saw, offering a few ideas, and then parting with “I’ll be up at the house. Don’t cut your hand off, your mother would never forgive me.” 

***

Though I’ve lovingly dedicated my life to it, I don’t consider myself to be a wonderfully skilled climber either. I prefer it this way, being a student to the process; running down a dream; trying hard to be better. 

But yes, I have spent a lot more time in front of craggy mountains than the frightening blade of a table saw.

***

Back in the shop, it was me, Bruce Springsteen, some scrap wood, and the task to turn this shell of a minivan into a home. My home. 

I’ll never forget the creation of the first bed leg. I measured again and again, nervous to break the ice. The table saw was constantly in my periphery. It spoke to me through its sharp teeth. “You can only measure so many times, Nat.” After a few songs⏤ which is a significant amount of time when listening to Bruce Springsteen live albums⏤ went by, I took a deep breath, stared down the table saw, tried not to flinch, and cut my first of ten very uneven bed legs.

***

I felt more prepared to try the Moonlight Buttress than I did to build a bed in my minivan. Still, it was an intimidating endeavor. In my time in Zion, I had tiptoed around it, forever inspired but never willing. I’d been “saving” Moonlight. In other words, I was measuring, again, and again, and again. Eventually, its calling became too loud and too many stars aligned; one of my best friends was equally as eager and the weather was perfect. It was simply time.

We went for it with our hearts and our souls, and they carried objective success for us until the crux pitch. You could say that first foray to the crux of Moonlight, I faced the table saw, and cut the three best pieces I knew how to. I learned from each one, but ultimately, none of them were good enough to get the job done. We weren’t dismayed, but excited that the stigma was gone and we could actually get to work on building something meaningful.

***

My maiden toil on the bed-build went late into the night. Gradually, the table saw became less gripping to use, and the bed legs were coming out closer to how I needed them to be. After a few failed attempts, I had four good legs for half of the futon style structure. I had poured myself into these thirteen inch 1x2s, and I was excited. I grabbed the plywood sheet that my mattress would eventually lay on, and balanced it on the upright legs standing on the floor of the garage to ensure that it was level.

Springsteen was halfway through Thunder Road, as I proudly admired my ugly duckling bed legs.

Show a little faith, there’s magic in the night. 

You ain’t a beauty, but hey, you’re alright.

Dancing with satisfaction, I put the levelling measure on what would become half of my bed, just to be sure of course. 

It wasn’t level! I couldn’t believe it! How? Confused, frustrated, and determined, I drew more lines and fired up the table saw again. 

A few songs later, I returned to the garage floor with the best bed legs of my four hour carpentry career. Springsteen was bringing the house down with The Promised Land, and I was feeling good. I set the sheet down onto my four new legs. 

The exact same! I couldn’t believe it! 

Out of frustration, I dismissively flicked the levelling measure off the structure and onto the garage floor. When I went to pick it up and shake off the defeat, I noticed that even on the floor, it wasn’t reading level. 

In fact, it was the exact same reading as the structure.

I inhaled the lesson I was taught by bed legs and uneven ground, and moved on with my work.

***

A week after our cherished failure, my friend Danny and I returned to Moonlight. Commitment and devotion were in the air as we blasted to the crux, climbing confidently and enjoying the synergy of sharing the rope with a brother in a beautiful place. When I think of bliss, I think of moments like that one; moving but not rushing, sharing wordless smiles, and watching Zion Canyon teem with afternoon life.

We arrived at the crux. Danny tried first, coming oh-so-close to freeing the pitch before his foot slipped off a smear and he was airborne. He lowered, and I could feel that both of us feared Groundhog Day; it was like me in the shop, cutting piece after piece, and making a mistake on an eighth of an inch that would derail the entire effort. Back at the anchor, Danny untied and handed me the rack: “Get us through this pitch, Nat.” 

   For a succession of moments, as it sometimes goes in climbing, I found my existence simplified into a sequence of moments of upward movement. I improvised when it made sense to, and I wasn’t afraid of failing or succeeding. By no means was it particularly graceful, but it was my moment of completely liberated expression. It was the flower of growth that blooms every now and then, and it is so, so lovely. 

From when I stepped off the anchor, to the moments when I was belaying Danny up to me after climbing the pitch, I felt the feeling that I now know I am constantly striving toward. A deep silence had washed over the particularly loud place of my mind. For a moment, as I admired Zion Canyon, I was quietly liberated.

***

After my blunder with the uneven ground, I began to find flow in my bed building. I found myself thinking less about how each tool worked, or how each piece would interact with another. It became thoughtless and active. No longer was I anxious or frustrated. If I messed up a cut, I would examine where I had gone wrong, and try again. I improvised when it made sense to, progressively creating a structurally sound and aesthetically ridiculous bed. Late in the second night of work, without relief, I put the finished bed in my van. Quirks and all, it did exactly what it was meant to do. I put my mattress on top of the bed, and laid down under the blanket of that elusive silence. I lit a cigarette and took a walk through the silent night, quietly liberated. 

the Cold and the City and the Warmth of the Gritty

December, to me, is the city.

Metal and cold. Closer to the North Pole than the Equator, its smoke billows in defiance to the natural cycle of this part of the earth. Skyscrapers rise like hundreds of middle fingers, flipping off the mountains to the west. The river cuts through the nucleus of it all, a flowing frozen this time of year. Its headwaters are just south of one of the largest expansions of ice in North America. That scene of majesty is less than three hundred kilometers away. Down here in the prairies, the river brings the life of the mountains to a reliant but indifferent population.

In the same skyline as grand mountains, these buildings- a quarter of them vacant, are an arrogantly obvious example of humanity's ability to displace and consume.

Cold and industrious as the city may be, its lack of color reveals specks of vibrancy that otherwise go unnoticed; small explosions of joy are bright beacons of light in a sea of snowy white. I like the city for this, the snippets of the warmth juxtaposed against cold-conducting metal. It only takes a curious stroll to see it everywhere. If we are willing and privy, it is all around us:

Determined to get some fresh air, a couple pushes their baby's stroller through a foot of snow on what they believe to be a sidewalk. 

A woman spends her day in the cold, at the train station, passionately petitioning downtown Calgary to do their part in ending the regime of the Chinese Communist Party. 

A man, carrying all of his belongings in a grocery bag, sits down near a street corner. He pulls a beer out of the grocery bag. As he's about to crack it, he sees a stranger waiting to cross the street. He asks the stranger if he'd like the beer.

Yes, these are delightful moments in a cold city, their value so much more obvious this time of year.

And have you ever dragged a cigarette in the cold? Or better yet, paired it not only with winter, but with a coffee too? The other day I just missed a late night train, and was rewarded twenty glorious minutes to savor an American Spirit in one numb hand, and a hot black coffee in the other. God damn!

The cold city also showcases the contrasts of society. Wealth is hurried and remote starts; often, it doesn't even wear a toque. Poverty, on the other hand, rides trains to nowhere all night. It is almost always wearing a toque. While one is warm on the inside of cold metal buildings, the other leans its back against the unforgiving exterior. What difference a wall makes.

The cold matters because anything that does not create warmth is easily identified as cold. Bullshit freezes over. And the buildings, arrogant as they may be, are important because they radiate the cold. When cold has somewhere to go it becomes grand. Cold vastness is grand. The Canadian Rockies, for example. 

The city in the cold is a completely blank canvas, aggressively erased of warm hues or filler. All of a sudden, a stroller being pushed is vividly inspiring, and it becomes so much easier to appreciate how badass it is for a woman to spend a day advocating for a cause in no convenient way.

And someone with nothing giving up their last beer? Well that's just fucking awesome.