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. 

The Energy

    The low hanging clouds relaxed into the valley, both cloaking and exposing the Rockies. "Come Back" by Nym moved through my minivan with the need to be heard. The beat dropped. I could feel them all moving through my body, finding their way into my open soul and overpowering my mind of reason. Every piece of choss I would rip off. Every questionable gear placement. Every sunrise. Every sunset. Every shiver. Every defeat. Every victory. Every adventure. The time is now.

Wine Tastes Better Than Whine

   The mountains provide refuge for the dreamer in all of us.

   They also provide refuge for the scared little bitch in all of us.

   "I'm going to do that." "Dude, lets get on that!" "That's going to be rad." "I'm psyched."

   "I'm not really feeling it today." "It looks sort of sketchy." "I am cold." "I can't do this." 

    The mountains are inanimate. They will not congratulate us on our sends, nor will they belittle us when we fall off of them. Though the canvas may be shaped like a spire, it is blank. This realization can be empowering or overwhelming. Climbing, and perhaps life as a whole, is a lot easier when gazing through a car window. The wind can still be seen garnishing peaks with snow, but her harsh bite bounces off the impermeable car. The vertical realm can still be admired, and a beautiful photo can be taken. There is merit in this; not everyone has the desire to dance a delicate chasśe. This becomes even more understandable when one of your dance partners is considered: Fear. Perhaps it is simply a lack of desire that keeps us from getting out of the car, or onto the dance floor. Perhaps, if we tell ourselves we don't care over and over eventually we will believe it, or maybe at the very least our followers will. Perhaps we are scared.

    I have been on both ends of the introductory dialogue. The second line tainted my younger self's passion for snowboarding into something contrived and meaningless. Luckily for me, I discovered climbing at the dawn of a time where I feel inspired to hold myself to principles and listen to Bruce Springsteen with my head out the window. I still find myself constantly butting heads with fear and ego. I flail. I flail a lot. I have had days where I bit off absurd amounts more than I could chew, and utterly choked. But choosing to battle fear is a victory in a war that will never end. The conscious decision in itself is the switch that must be flipped in order to experience anything in its fullest potential: In order to climb well, you have to let go of the fear of falling. In order to ask someone out, you have to let go of the fear of them saying no (I wouldn't know, cool, cool, cool). Ultimately in order to live, we have to let go of the fear of dying. These themes are magnified during a life painted on the mountains.

   The abiotic nature of the mountains means that the only living force trying to stop us when we are climbing is ourselves. This rare intimacy with the corners of our mind that we typically try to suppress force us to accept and confront the raw fear in all of us. The canvas begins blank but is constantly being splashed with colour and there is an ongoing power struggle for control of the brush. Though my writing is a filter just like the window of a car, and my words will not do any experience justice, I think it is important to share how we live, and strive to live:

   If fear paints my picture, I will not be happy. 

   Each time we go into the mountains, or whatever the mountains may parallel in your life, we have an opportunity; a day that depends on self determination. We can be scared, and it'll be easy, but lack any sort of satisfaction. Being a scared is a tumbleweed, nothing will stick. Or, we can choose the harder way of life. The stronger way of life, where we put our roots down on what we do. The outcome doesn't matter, the effort alone is the source of a euphoria that is invaluable and refuses to compromise. It is an emotion that is unbridled. It is freedom.

   "Talk about a dream; try to make it real. 
    You wake up in the night with a fear so real.
    Your spend your life waiting for a moment that just don't come.
    Well don't waste your time waiting."
     -BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN !
 

   

A Home Brewed Story

   Though there may be faster methods of travel, the shoelace express is reliable in both its durability, and its constant yield of adventure. This statement rang true and vibrated out of my first strides across the beach. The South Pacific break accompanied the endless flow of Bruce Springsteen pouring out of my iPhone 4. My youthful urgency and fear of losing precious fitness for the climbing season led me to construct, and follow, a training regimen throughout my family's two week holiday to the Cook Islands. The hotel had a gym and I frequented it, telling myself that if I didn't, half a winter's worth of training would be down the drain. For cardio, I turned to the mountainous jungle and the rolling beaches. 

   On Christmas day, my hair flew and I could feel the pressure of the air making my smile goofy as I surfed along the road in the truck bed of a Cook Islander that had kindly responded to my raised thumb. I could see the two locals in the cab laughing at this kid in their rumbling Tacoma who's actions were more parallel to dog than human. They drove me as far as they could. After another short ride in a Mini Cooper, I was close enough to start running toward my towering objective.

   Te Manga is the tallest mountain in the Cook Islands, and was my goal for the day. The trail seemed moderate enough to run at a good pace. I was excited to challenge myself against these foreign mountains, whose power was cloaked beneath a green cape of thick jungle. With no food, but plenty of water, I began the 650 metre climb from the oceanside road to the roof of the island. The first few kilometres through the inland neighbourhoods and then on a 4x4 trail were the toughest mentally. My courtesy Air New Zealand flight socks had catalyzed a massive and painful blister on my run yesterday, and the blister made it difficult to feel light and get into a groove. But through self bullying and the dreadful thought of stopping before even beginning the climb, the pain nestled its way into a trivial part of my mind and I settled in. My spirits were lifted as I moved further and further into the jungle, and could feel the elevation in my quads. I felt light, powering through muskeg, darting up the odd rock slab, and zipping my way onto a ridge. Elation flooded into my working muscles as I swung with the trees, locked in a dance like state with the jungle. This dance was rudely interrupted by a symmetric and creepy collection of silk spun from tree to tree. The first spider web across the trail struck fear into me, "an irrational fear", I told myself. 

   At times, when my rhythm broke, or I stopped to question the direction of the trail, the jungle got the better of my straining mind. I felt isolated and claustrophobic. After spending so much time among the Rockies, I have become accustomed, and look forward to moments of growth that make me feel oxymoronically small. But the jungle's abundance of life is unrelenting. Every step is through a spider web, or on a nest of ants, or narrowly avoiding a gecko. The vines criss cross the trail as if at any second they will grab your leg, and pull you into the void. It was intimidating, and this fear was part of the reason I wanted to run the mountain alone. I reasoned with myself that if I can climb vertical rock and ice and just barely shit my pants, running among bugs and trees should leave me unsoiled and unscathed!

   Just below the summit, I began to curse myself for not bringing food. I had run myself into a throbbing headache that was medicated by a dwindling supply of water, but my muscles began to cramp and my stomach screamed with the jungle heat and my idiocy oppressing it. I took a breath before scampering up yet another short rock step, with a rope installed by a former party for assistance if need be. At the top of this step I came across a small party of locals, hiking the mountain "for the last time". This ominous statement wasn't explained and my frazzled mind entertained all sorts of outcomes that it could mean. Some were unsettling, others utterly hilarious. Before parting ways, I swallowed my pride, sounding like the unprepared foreigner I tried so hard not to be. 

  "Hey! So, ummm, I was an idiot, and kind of didn't bring any food. Do you have any you could spare?" 

   These words tasted like vinegar as they stumbled out of my mouth, and the cherry-on-top that was my awkward chuckle really twisted the knife into what little image of a "savvy mountain man" I had left. The locals laughed, called me a dumbass, and gave me a couple of passionfruit. "Thank you!" I said again and again through impolite and large slurps of the nutrition. Immediately, I felt its effect and the energy spurred my legs into gear, keen on finishing the climb in good pace.

   The summit came shortly after, with the only slight challenge being an exposed, muddy section of ridge. The delicacy of the easy moves made me yearn to be on a mountain face rather than a trail. After another passionfruit on the summit, and then touring around the small summit plateau, I began the descent. The ridge was once again handled with care, and then I tried to speed down in order to both push my body and beat the exhaustion clock. Ah, the logic of expending more energy in order to avoid exhaustion! Bulletproof! Halfway down, I ran out of water and simply put my throbbing head down and moved quickly through the descending jungle. I forced an exhausted laugh as my care for running through spider webs dwindled away with my energy. After a slight ordeal of stumbling off the trail and slipping down a muddy slope with Dr. Dre, Snoop Dogg, and my iPhone 4 stumbling beside me, I made it to the familiar muskeg of the valley floor. This gave my mind the strength to kick my cramping quads into overdrive, and soon after I got to the road. I confirmed the asphalt wasn't a mirage by touching it with stumbling hands. A satisfaction surged through my now walking body. I checked my phone and was shocked that my miniature jungle epic had all taken place in less than three hours. I nodded to the summit of Te Manga, 650 metres above me and buried a few kilometres in the jungle. My attempt at a sentimental moment was interrupted by the honk of a scooter, and the friendly ring of the accent of an islander. "You need a ride little buddy?" 

  I was overjoyed! Without even putting my thumb up I had a ride! The bald, and incredibly large operator of the scooter was a kind man who introduced himself as Ike. He was out running errands, and first had to stop at a friend's, and then he promised to give me a ride all the way to my hotel, across the island. I insisted it wasn't necessary; That as far as he was planning on going was generous enough. But he would not have it, "because its Christmas!" I thanked him, and enjoyed the obscure transportation that is clinging to the back of a speeding moped. After a joyous ride rich with good conversation and laughs, we came upon his friend's beachside shack, where two men with dreadlocks were strumming guitars at a picnic table. Between them sat a 2L Coke bottle, about half full with an orange concoction. One was Gypsy, the others name eludes me, but they were both lovely. We conversed at length topics that strangers don't typically dive into. Big things. Religion, the meaning of life, hardships, struggle. I felt among friends; Perhaps slightly catalyzed by the orange concoction that they insisted, "I needed after a run like that, you crazy little Canadian bugger". But the warmth within me was mostly rooted from the personal connections I had quickly formed, and the friendships that were forged on the fires of kindness and open hearts. After a rare silence, we all looked out at the sea. 

  "Nat, God loves you mate." 

   While Jesus may not make my top fifty, Gypsy was certainly up there.

 I thanked them for their hospitality before Ike and I left the two guitar playing men. Ike and I then stopped at his place, as he now insisted there was something that I had to see. He hadn't led me astray yet, and I obliged as the obvious excitement in his eyes showed that he spoke of something he treasured. Moments later, I found myself on a small bluff above the lagoon, sitting beside Ike and marvelling at the beauty of the sea. Ike's soft voice broke into a delicate rhythm, as if it was floating on the same current as the waves we were gazing at: "The sea is my healer, I've been through some really fucked up stuff. We all have. But, no matter what is happening in my life, I can come here and feel peace." Neither of us spoke. My mind flew to the peace that nature so often bestowed upon me. A quotation from Norman Maclean's A River Runs Through It summarizes this theme in a far superior way than I can. "All things merge into one, and in the end, a river runs through it." 

   I thought of how benign all of my problems were in that moment. How a river, unique to each moment and individual, will always be running through the peaks and valleys of our lives. When we find our way to its banks, without even noticing our souls are washed clean and our worries quickly flow downstream. 

   

   Ike broke the silence with a joke that forced a smile to erupt from my pondering face.

   My aching muscles were a sweet reminder of my journey through the jungle as I rose from the moped, and hugged Ike, thanking him for the ride back and the wonderful afternoon. As his moped sped off, I thought about how happy I was for all of the "rivers" that I had flowing through my life. Once again, an idea sprang into my youthfully urgent mind that constantly betrayed my body. I could feel the tightness of my body as I sprinted back to my room scouring, for my journal. I found it, and in big, rather heinous writing I wrote two words: JUMP IN.

   

A Bivi Bag Is Better Than a Bed

                                           
    As Leon Bridges flows out of my Macbook speakers, I feel inclined to write. Earlier, I was reading an old entry from my journal. The concluding paragraph ended with "written on the shores of the Bow River, under the mighty north face of Mt. Temple". Immediately, I looked at my surroundings, and thought of the mundanity of attending school and pulling on plastic holds.

   My room wasn't so mundane anymore as my daydream developed. I felt the icy water rise up my legs as I tried to cross the river to an island where I spotted an abandoned beer. I felt my makeshift writing desk of logs shift every time I pressed pen to paper. The summer aura had begun to dry my soaking short shorts after my futile chase for alcohol. I was beerless- the current was too strong, or perhaps my legs too weak. The light in my Calgary room turned into a bright Rockies sun, beaming on my tanned skin.

   Though my soul may be there, and my mind occasionally drifts toward that rocky valhalla, I am not there. Instead I am no longer paying rent, and the staple of my diet isn't complimentary peanut butter from the Chateau cafe. Rather, I am enjoying home cooked meals. I play basketball with my friends, party with the same old people, and am living a classic "senior year" lifestyle. Obviously climbing is still integral to my life. Training takes up a healthy amount of time and money in the gym, and every decent weather weekend is spent with friends, making the pilgrimage back to the limestone cathedral. Cold hands are warmed around a campfire in between climbs, and there is never a dull moment or a lapse in psyche. These days remind how special life is, and how simple the ingredients are to make happiness: friends and passion. Usually, these weekend escapes end sleepily, listening to music as the sun sets in the rearview. Soon, I'm back in my bed,  in a desk, or in a basement with solo cups and mediocrity creeps in. The phenomenon of feeling anxious and uncomfortable in a controlled and familiar environment is an odd one. My words will not justify the thoughts that swirl in my mind. But I will say this:
   
A bivi bag is better than a bed. 

The final hours of an alpine epic spent stumbling home with a mind fogged by exhaustion, is far superior to the final hours of any party. 

"Watch me," sounds better thousands of feet up and delivered with fear than it does in a classroom demonstration. 

    In order to further my thesis and truly live up to my hipster stereotype, I will quote John Mayer. "This house is safe and warm, but I was made to chase the storm." As humans, why do we build ourselves prisons that we constantly try to escape from? This question pondered my mind on one of the fall drives home from the mountains. While constantly craning my neck to see the sunset over that sacred land, I realized something. If you have to crane your neck, you should just turn around.

 

Tiptoeing The Line

   "Where do you think we go?" I asked Karl. It was a common question throughout the morning. First, we bushwhacked through a Larch forest by headlamp, got totally lost, and then finally popped out of the forest above the tree line and got back on route. However, the phrase "on route" is quite subjective when it is early in the morning and everything is covered in ten centimetres of snow. Nonetheless, we trudged up the moraine toward the receded glacier high above us. Ultimately, we were trying to get to the "Centre Ice Bulge Direct!", a classic alpine ice climb on Mt. Fay. Getting there involved travelling on said glacier towering above us, and we were looking for an easy, developed rock route to get up to the glacier, known as the Perren Route. We trudged on, slipping on the snowy rocks as the sun began to tell the world it was time to wake up. The beautiful larches across Moraine Lake faded into hues of pink, somehow making the yellow trees even more beautiful as they contrasted against the high peaks that I hold so close to my heart. The wide moraine terminated into a ledgy cliff to our left, and a waterslide looking waterfall above us. 

   "This must be it," I announced, more so trying to convince myself than Karl. The route was incredibly cryptic with its cloak of snow, but the cliff was by no means impressive. Perhaps standing at a generous twenty metres, and full of ledges and good looking holds we figured it must've been the route and though we couldn't see bolts, it was easy enough for us to scamper up. Our spirits were high as we yelled in euphoria, donning our cold hands with gloves, and drinking an obscure South American tea that Karl had brewed. The approach had been mentally testing, trudging on and on in the cold. But I was there. I was in one of the most beautiful places in the world with one of my best friends, and we were about to embark on what we had both came for: adventure. 

   "Let's put our crampons on, it'll give us better purchase on the rock," Karl offered. I obliged. The conditions were tricky, the infamously broken rock had frozen together and was covered in a glaze of ice thick enough for your hands to hate you, but too thin for the use of the ice axe. We started up the easy looking rock, singing The Lonely Island and laughing. It was bliss. We felt like we were earning our stripes as climbers, and these new-to-us conditions simply offered another initiation. With our big gloves, we pulled on good holds, hoped they didn't break, found an edge for the front points of our crampons, and moved off them. Soon, a promising looking ledge was a few feet above our heads, and both of us were side by side on small ledges, trying to figure out our next moves. A shark tooth looking hold stuck out to me on the ledge, but I was not ignorant to the range in which I was climbing and tested it thoroughly. The mood was still jubilant, and Karl and I laughed when I said to the abiotic feature, "Please! Please, don't break and kill me!" I weighted it and it felt good, so I moved my feet up off the safety of the ledge onto two small holds. As I searched for my next right hand to pull myself onto the lovely looking ledge, I heard it. 

   With a crack, my eyes widened as I looked at my left hand holding onto the shark tooth feature now detached from the rock. My momentum took me a few inches away from the cliff, and in the longest two seconds of my life I clawed at the rock for any sort of literal lifeline. My right hand got something small and snow covered, and I pulled myself back onto my two small feet. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck, I can't move Karl, I can't fucking move. Fuck." Karl heard the desperation in my voice, and tried to calm me: "Hang on. I'm going to climb to the ledge and throw you a rope, just hang on." This worked and I breathed, focusing on simply hanging on. 

   "Nat. Nat. I can't move. You need to get to me." They were the last words I wanted to hear and I looked to my right and found Karl, slightly above my level and on hands and feet looking more precarious than mine. My saviour needed saving, and our jaunt had turned into a death march. 

   Adrenalin kicked in, and after split second examination I pulled on holds without testing them, simply hoping they wouldn't break, and I fought my way to the ledge. I set my backpack down, and in an attempt at a voice of reason said, "Hang on buddy, I'm just going to build an anchor and get you up." His response, and the way he looked at me, was hauntingly real. With small pupils, both his eyes and voice said, "No time. You have to pull me up. I fucking need you, I can't hang on." In a moment like this, no one thinks, they simply do. My friend was in peril and he needed me, just as on so many past adventures I needed him. I searched for a hold for my left hand along the ledge, but could only find a slopey feature glazed in ice. "Karl, you just need to hang on, just a little longer, I have to find a better hold. I can't pull you up on this," I pleaded. I saw his gloveless left hand, white as the snow around it, clutching a hold with his entire life upon it as his right hand grabbed his axe and took desperate swings at the rubble in the ledge, hoping for a miracle. "I can't feel my hands, you have to pull me up now," my friend said, once again with eyes wider than anything I'd ever seen. I took a breath. "Okay, just try and weight yourself as much as you can, I don't know if I can hold you." I gripped the frozen sloper with my left hand, my glove off trying to summon all the strength and grip I had. "You ready?" He asked. "Yeah, yeah give me your axe," I responded, perhaps sounding rather solemn. Karl's axe swung into the vicinity of my outstretched body, and with my hand that wasn't hanging onto my slopey prayer hold, I grabbed it and began to pull. I could feel the pulleys in my left fingers flex, and then I could not. They had gone numb but thankfully wouldn't budge. I tried to balance on my crampons as my right arm strained with the weight of my friend. With a sort of disbelief, Karl shouted, "I think I found something! I think I found something!" I felt the weight on my axe hand lessen slightly as one of his feet below the ledge propelled him upward. He extended for a good hold that was previously out of reach and grabbed it with his free hand, and with that released the axe I was white knuckling. We were home free, but it was short lived. I watched with horror as his hold started to unearth itself. "Grab the axe! Grab the fucking axe!" I shouted, watching his hold flex. He grabbed it and the tension left my body as his knee pulled onto the ledge. We both collapsed on the ledge for a moment, in total disbelief of how our day had gone from zero to one hundred.

   Reality snapped back in the form of the screaming barfies, where one's frozen hand begins to be filled with limb saving warmth, as well as pain that makes you want to scream, and, you guessed it, barf. My left hand felt like it was thrown into a boiling cast iron pot and though I didn't scream, with slight insanity I sung The Who's, "The Kids Are Alright", trying to take my mind off the pain. "I don't miiiiiiiiind," I wailed the song, now laughing at myself and somehow crying in pain at the same time. Karl, who typically had an Ace Ventura quote lined up for any situation, was as silent as the Rocky Mountain air around us. "You alright buddy?" I asked. "Sleep. So tired," he responded as his eyes rolled back and looked empty. The ordeal had sent Karl into shock and he was about to pass out. We weren't out of the woods yet. 

   I grabbed water and spoke to Karl, probably sounding incredibly annoying, in order to keep him awake. "You can't fall asleep on me Karl, you just can't." I said, always trying to sound calm, though I could hear my words leave my mouth with an accompanied tremble. I needed to make us secure, and grabbed the rope and our trad rack from Karl's pack. I rushingly tried to place a cam into a crack above the ledge, but it was too big. I cursed with frustration as I saw on Karl's harness the right sized cam that would work, but he was sitting on it and I couldn't risk moving him. I cleared snow off the rock looking for more cracks that would give us some concrete safety. With Karl in a semi-conscious state, myself running around this ledge trying to build an anchor, and the beautiful Autumn Rocky Mountains teasing us, it was the longest fifteen minutes of my life.

  "Well, shall we keep going?" I was so shocked to hear these words I almost fell off the ledge. "What the hell are you talking about? Are you okay?" I asked in rapid fire, incredibly confused. "Yeah, I'm alright. That was gnarly, let's keep going," Karl responded with calm in his voice. We hugged, and laughed, happy to be alive and discussing our route. The snowy ledges continued, but at a lower grade. After some recuperation, we went onward. Soon though, we realized that the conditions made this low grade rock incredibly heinous, and we still had no idea where the actual route was. Plus, our brush with the other side had us way behind schedule. It was time to turn around.

   As we bum scooted through a gully on the far left side of the ledge, and walked down the semi-frozen creek to Moraine Lake, we talked. Both of us expressed that though we had to learn from that experience, neither of us were dissuaded from alpine climbing. It happened, we dealt with it in the best way possible, and we are better because of it. Though I risk sounding ignorant to risk, I am at peace with the fact that climbing is playing with fire. I expressed to Karl that the thought of sitting at a desk for forty years still scared me more, and I was relieved to hear him respond in a sarcastic Mike Meyer's impersonation. He was back, and I found myself looking forward feeling inexplicably excited. We went for it and committed, and in an imperfect life, imperfection is inevitable. There is an incredibly large difference between living, and surviving. We did not survive that day somewhere near the Perren Route, we lived it. Though I never want to go through something like that again, I cannot wait to get on another climb. 

   Finally, my conscious thoughts have instilled into my mind that this is going to be my life and I am going to embrace all that comes with it. Still at the very humble beginnings of my alpine climbing career, this left me with a deep satisfaction. Both of us had read, and been inspired by Barry Blanchard's memoir, The Calling. In the book, he talks about his close calls, and how many times he and his partners had bailed each other out of situations. I thought about the time that my friend Luke and I almost accidentally cut our rope nine hundred feet off the ground, or when John threw me a rope cause the god damn Nike Freeruns were about to send me into the Norquay valley, and when Karl did the same on Tower Of Babel, when we chose to solo the first pitch and the god damn Nike Freeruns betrayed me again (why do I still wear those shoes? Learn, idiot!). As I looked around, I thought about the Rocky Mountains, and once again felt somehow even smaller. An ear to ear grin was on my face as I nodded at the wise scholars whose shadow's did not chill me, but filled me with warmth. We had danced with them, and as our feet stumbled both literally and figuratively, they bestowed us with their knowledge. But I know that I am not going to sit on the bench in the corner of the gym sulking, I refuse too. For with each new song, comes new opportunity, the opportunity for the entire reason I'm dancing: adventure.

    

A Summer In The Rockies

                                                                 ***JULY***

   Mandela, Blanchard, and Springsteen. This summer I dived into each of their respective autobiographies, and while the lives of a Freedom Fighter, Mountain Guide, and a Rockstar diverge into unique valleys, they shared a common theme: A relentless drive that burned bright with the fuel of passion. They are all self made men, whose catalyst to success was their desire to succeed, rather than natural talent. What I gathered from each of their memoirs was that they were ordinary people with extraordinary dreams, and an unbreakable spirit. In the spring, before my pilgrimage to live among the limestone giants that only teased me with their beauty from the prairies, I saw an Instagram post. It read, "Be fearless in the pursuit of what sets your soul on fire." These passages inspired me; I had just discovered climbing and decided that surviving simply isn't enough, I am going to live. As a headstrong teenager whose ego/confidence (mostly ego) had just been inflated by sending 5.12a, I was ready to take on the world. Or at least I thought I was.

  Spring went by in a blur. Most weekends were spent climbing during the day, and Jeep sleeping when night fell. It was adventure after adventure and spring faded into exams as the days became longer. I wish I could tell you that I took a break from climbing in order to focus on my studies, and that I did exceedingly well. But I had recently gotten news that I had been offered a job as a parking lot attendant at the Lake Louise Ski Resort, and that infected me with the adventure bug even more. What I can tell you is that one night before one of my exams, my friend Jacky and I did a six pitch 5.10d route in Heart Creek, and we topped out just as the Sun bid us adieu. We spent the next ninety minutes rappelling in the dark. While waiting for one another at the anchors our headlamps were turned off and our minds were lulled into tranquility by the rushing sounds of the creek far below and the dark, silent aura the limestone walls screamed into the night. Each breath felt pure, and in those moments I knew I had made the right call, I was ready for adventure.

   I finished my last exams, had a wonderful night with my best friends, and got behind the wheel of the Jeep making a B line west. A mix of anxiousness and excitement filled my eager mind, and it grew as the Lumineers blared through my terrible speakers and I turned off at the Lake Louise exit. I pulled into the Charleston Residence with a screech of my tires. First impressions aren't always everything. From the outside, Charleston looks like a grand log mansion and as I chatted with the housing office I thought I would be living in style this summer. As I lugged my belongings- mostly climbing gear, up the stairs to room 308, my visions of a lush summer were crushed, and new ones of a real, genuine summer emerged.

   308 has character. The floors are stained, and lodged between the old stove and a scratched wall was an infamous shotski. It was an old apartment and those thin walls had seen unspeakable things in the decades they'd been up. Nonetheless, it was my house for the next two months, and it truly became a home.

   After my first anxious night in my small apartment in an even smaller room, I began to settle in to my summer in the mountains. Attending the parking lot gave me ample time to pick up reading again, and I met travellers from far and wide that truly broadened my perspective of the world and those who call it home. After work, I would go climbing to the crag behind Lake Louise, and for the first few weeks, I would stop at the Fairmont cafe, and grab as much complimentary peanut butter packets as I could fit in my pockets. I had moved to Lake Louise with $50, spent it all on Starbucks and groceries and was too proud to ask for money from my parents. Thus, I learnt a stark but necessary lesson via a diet of strictly KD and Kraft peanut butter, and the odd Nutella packet if I was lucky. Yet, as I walked through the fancy halls of the Fairmont in my ripped pants with a rope on my back, I didn't think about my grumbling stomach, or whether I conformed to the dress code. My mind was on the laughs my friends and I shared and what climbs I would try hard on that evening. I wasn't a tourist walking aimlessly and taking the same photo that everyone else takes, I am a climber. Pouring my entire life into this passion. I found myself on the fringe, and it felt good.

   My weekends, which were Mondays to Wednesdays were typically spent in the Casa De Cherokee in Canmore, or climbing somewhere in the Bow Valley. One of these weekends in early July stand out to me as a turning point in climbing, and ultimately my life. Despite a wonderful two days climbing and cliff jumping with my friends, I slept restlessly in the back of my Jeep. It wasn't the idea of sleeping in a car that kept me awake, in fact I never sleep more soundly than I do on a roadside pullout. It was this overwhelming and crippling fear. It was unlike anything I'd ever felt and was a combination of many scares. First, was this unrelenting fear of death, and the idea that climbing was going to kill me. This was catalyzed by the fear that maybe climbing wasn't the way I was supposed to spend my life, and frankly that was terrifying. At this point I had invested so much of myself into climbing that if it wasn't for me I wouldn't know what to do with myself. The next morning I was supposed to drive back to Lake Louise, and meet someone to go climbing. But I couldn't shake these thoughts out of my head and they weighed me down as I made breakfast and contemplated my day. For some time, I had wanted to do a big, easy, solo climb. Something extremely within my ability, but without a rope or a partner and high off the ground. It should be stressed that by no means am I Alex Honnold, and that morning in my jeep behind Save On Foods, I have never been farther from that style of climbing.

   I roared the Jeep back on the highway toward Lake Louise, still feeling uneasy. As I tried to think more critically and battled my mind, I realized that this was something I was going to have to face, otherwise it would be torture. Wrestling my plans back and forth, the self fight came to a climax as I signalled off the highway toward Banff at the last moment. My eyes, but perhaps not yet my dwindling mind, were set on the Rundlehorn.

  The Rundlehorn is by no means extreme, it is typically done in eleven ropelengths, and is around 250 metres of climbing. While those are big statistics, it only goes at 5.5, which while perhaps still climbing slab and vertical rock, all of the holds are very positive or the angle is very low. Continuously, I told myself that it would be very difficult to fall so long as I kept my head screwed on tight, and the drive from the highway up to Bow Falls was no more than five minutes, but it felt endless. My palms were sweating when I parked, grabbed my gear and tried not to overthink anything on the short approach. I had to bring the rope up to rappel, and thus it was coiled around my shoulders. My thoughts were focused on the irony of bringing gear to make climbing relatively safe, but making the choice not to use it. All in the name of adventure and personal growth.

   My mind was racing, and I honestly cannot recall getting to the base of the climb very well because my thoughts were scattered and I simply moved my legs and focused on not turning around and bitching out of the climb. "This is easy, this is what you need. You are doing this." Soon my Birkenstocks were off and my purple climbing shoes were donned. I plunged my nervous hands into the old toque I turned into a chalk bag and read the duct tape that lined it: "690%". It is an immature joke that evolved into a mantra, meaning that in order to achieve great things, I have to put 690% of myself into it. With one deep breath, I began up the easy slab, and the simple moves began to flow and culminate into a dance that one does alone but feels the entire world sway with them. Quickly, I was up the first four slab pitches and was feeling good. There was another party on the route and there company was comforting. Barbara and Dallas were two go-getter pensioners from Florida that took up climbing as a retirement activity. They travel around North America following the good weather and visiting family. It was an inspiring atmosphere and before I passed them and continued on my way, Dallas looked down at the Fairmont golf course far below us and exclaimed words that made me grin and kicked me in the ass: "Society says that folks our age should be down there, that looks fucking boring!" As I left the ledge that separates the bottom slab from the more vertical climbing, I heard Barbara scold him for his language and laughed, thinking of my own grandparents bickering.

   My mind was at ease as I continued up the face, until I started to notice that I hadn't seen any bolts for the roped climbers in awhile. I stopped on a sturdy, small ledge and looked around. My heart sunk when 15 feet to my right I saw a bolt, and above of my current ledge the terrain looked a lot more technical than 5.5. I had gotten slightly off route, and as I looked down at my now exposed position, I realized the consequences could be quite dire. I had made a stupid mistake, and was faced head to head with my unearthed fear of death. At first, I crumpled, numb with fear despite still being well within my grade of climbing. "This is what you wanted, isn't it?" I thought to myself. It wasn't what I wanted, but it was what I needed and I reminded myself that if I wanted to be an alpinist I would find myself in situations far more severe than the one I was currently in. After a few minutes, I calmed myself down, looked at the rock above me, and before I could convince myself otherwise, began to move. The first few moves were shaky with my mind clearly elsewhere. With my legs shaking, I spotted a ledge for my hands. Without thinking, I extended my feet onto my tip toes, locked off with my right hand and reached for the hold with my left. The anxiety that had left me aimlessly lost in the past few days dissipated as my hand stuck to the hold. It wasn't so hard of a move as much as it was committing, and this time when I looked at the Bow River 350 feet below, I laughed with an inexplicable euphoria. My questions had been answered and my metaphorical chains were the only thing that flew off Mt. Rundle that day.

                                                                ***AUGUST***

   One of the constants of my summer was "Jason Lives", a hard 5.12d sport route at the crag in Lake Louise. I've lost count of how many times I've touched each hold, or had my foot pop off the terrible smear at the crux. This was not my summer to send the route, but I still gained so much from getting on it. Friendships were made, and others were strengthened simply because of the time spent belaying and climbing on that route. Also, I now understand how to try hard, and give 690% of mysef to something I care about. That alone, is indispensable, and is the reason I walked away from that route with no regrets. Though getting on the odd multipitch or alpine route in July, most of my time was spent at the crag, and as July flopped into August and the first few weeks went by I found myself craving the thing that brought me to climbing in the first place: adventure.

   It hurt me to see my last two paycheques go away with the click of a button, and I daunted the two weeks of peanut butter that I knew was to follow. But buying traditional climbing gear, or a trad rack, was the best decision I ever made. Trad climbing is where the leader places camming devices or wedge shaped "nuts" into cracks and constrictions in the rock for protection in the event of a fall, rather than clipping shiny bolts already drilled in. In theory, these will hold but that is not always the case. Trad climbing is more bold, and certainly more scary than sport climbing. Adventure demands uncertainty and at times, traditional climbing can be incredibly uncertain. I was keen when my gear came in the mail and was ready to scare myself. Unfortunately, Chucktown had other plans.

   Perhaps the peace pipe was passed to the wrong person, or a cold one was cracked with the convict. I can't tell you how I got mono, but I can tell you that the following week of laying in bed unable to do anything was horrendous. I felt lost without being able to climb, and after being independent and constantly moving it was an empty feeling to be completely dependent on others. I was supposed to go to Squamish with friends, but those plans were Squamashed by my sickness. I grew restless and am grateful that with the help of Tylenol, sleep, and wonderful Registered Nurse and mother Lisa Bailey, I was only out for a week and was back in Lake Louise thriving once more.

   With only a few weeks left in the Rockies, I was on a mission to climb as much as possible. In the last two weeks I climbed 13 of 14 days. The push began, starting on my dream route, Blue Jeans. Blue Jeans is a beast on the south face of Yamnuska, and though I knew it was out of my reach that year, I wanted to get on it and guage it. That day Matt, Dom, and I didn't even make it to the crux pitches at the fault of mine, and it took us- mostly me, around six hours to climb about sixty metres of rock and return back to the ground. Any ego previous climbs had spared me was shattered, and I apologized to my friends millions of times. Looking back, I am grateful for their patience and understanding in the ass kicking both Blue Jeans and the tail end of mono handed to me. I was a bad partner that day, perhaps overselling my ability and certainly putting my friends at risk of being sick. Good friends are hard to come by, and good climbing partners even harder. That day, Matt and Dom taught me what it was to be a good partner and I know it is a lesson I won't soon forget. August had begun with a hearty serving of humble pie.

   But I was not disheartened, in fact the opposite. Blue Jeans had thrown gas on the fire and I was keen to improve and get stronger. I reminded myself that this was my first summer climbing outside, and that I had to simply leave it all out there and trust what would happen. I began to climb more traditional (trad/gear) climbs. A dramatic shift in my climbing began on an easy, unremarkable, but beautiful 5.8 trad climb called Imaginary Grace. I felt good with placing gear, and the moves just flowed. Beaming with confidence, I saw a 5.10a trad climb in the guidebook called Manicure Crack. On sport, I warm up on 5.10a, but trad is a totally different game. Clipping bolts is mentally easy, and there's less to think about. But trad climbing is completely on you, you choose when to place gear and when not too. At first it is overwhelming. When we followed the guidebook to the base of the climb, I was surprised to find a short but steep and slimy overhanging corner crack. We looked around for something that looked more friendly, but I told myself that easy isn't always better, and told my partner, Tony, that I was going to climb it. It wasn't pretty, but after a combination of grunting with effort and a constant pleading of my belayer to watch me close should I fall, I made it to the top. I exclaimed down to Tony how alive I felt, and in those moments spent on that route, I became a trad climber.

Trying hard. P. Emmett Jerome (@__cannondale__)

   The next few weeks flew by and I climbed as much 5.10 trad as I could and was beginning to feel confident climbing on gear. I made a ticklist of routes that I wanted to do over the next few years, beginning with some 5.11 trad routes and working up to climbing really hard on gear. My goals had completely changed and my roommate Matt reminded me to embrace that, and I couldn't help it. I had never felt more alive in my life, and driven to pursue my dreams. I firmly believed, and firmly do believe that if you have drive, it is only inevitable that your goals are eventually realized. At the top of the ticklist was "Wicked Gravity". It is a 5.11a sport route that I had climbed lots thanks to my friend John, who always warmed up on it. None of the moves are incredibly difficult, and it gets its grade because it tests the endurance in your forearms and hands. With my current ability, it was one of those routes that wasn't easy, but also wasn't hard.

   I knew it was climbable using only trad gear because John had done it earlier in the summer. I also knew it was badass, but didn't realize the seriousness of it until one evening when I was climbing it on sport, about halfway up the route John pointed at a flake of rock, and shouted up at me, "that is where you place your last piece!" He knew that I wanted to do it on gear and this fact made me shiver a little bit as I looked up at how far I had until the anchors, and knew that between me and the top was still the hardest part of the route. But my mind was made up. Though at the time I knew I would climb Wicked Gravity on gear eventually, but I figured I wouldn't be ready before the already elderly summer closed its eyes and slipped away.

  It was a Saturday night, I had one more night in Lake Louise before returning to Calgary for school. My good friend Jacky was hanging around the Bow Valley for a few days doing some mountaineering and we were keen to climb together for the next two evenings. With night falling quite early now, we had to be choosy about what we got on in order to get the best out of our evening. I suggested to a tired Jacky that he get on Wicked Gravity, but was mostly just asking to warm up on it. He obliged and put me on belay. I brought my trad rack up to check out the gear, so when I did it I would know what to bring and where it goes. Some would argue that this is "poor style", and I see the merit in that. Obviously it is more bold to just figure out the gear as you go, but I soon became enlightened with the fact that there wasn't much gear to figure out; I found three good pieces, including the flake John had told me about, as well as two pieces above it that were quite bad but could be equalized to be okay. Once again, I cruised up the route and didn't find any difficulty. Jacky and I enjoyed a great night of climbing and Jacky boldly learned to trad climb by headlamp. He was psyched, I was psyched, we were all psyched!

   I awoke Sunday morning and strolled through work with a mental conviction. A voice in the back of my head told me simply that I was to climb Wicked Gravity on trad that evening. It was an idea I wrestled with right until the moment Jacky's van pulled into Chucktown to pick me up to go climbing. I had climbed it seven times without ever falling or weighting the rope, why would the eighth be different? "Well, if you fall on the crux, you're not being saved by a bolt and taking a fun fall. Instead, you're probably hitting the ground and traumatizing your friend, idiot." But that wouldn't change the difficulty of the moves, and I slowly realized over the day that the only thing stopping me from climbing it would be my mind and if I let it stop me from doing this, what else would it seize control of? "You can do this, leave it at that," and I did leave it at that. The first thing I said to Jacky when I got in his van was "I am doing Wicked Gravity on gear tonight." I needed it to be out there and all of a sudden it felt very real. As the van approached Lake Louise, my stomach was filled with butterflies.

   Everything was a blur until I was tied in, had the gear I needed on my harness and Jacky had me on belay. We smiled and fist bumped. I chalked up my hands, and drew a chalk smiley face on my arm. I took a breath and started up. It was on.

   The first twenty feet are easy, and at about this mark you get to a crack where you place your first piece of gear. I exhaled the anxieties as my red number one cam fit into the crack like a glove and I clipped it into the rope. Jacky shouted, "you're on belay!" On good holds, I shook out the slight pump I was feeling in my forearms, put more chalk on and continued up. The moves flowed, hugging a corner, right hand bumping up the crack where my lifeline was placed, left hand on good holds and feet pushing up on good ledges. After a cross out of the crack and a few moves I came to a small roof and a horizontal crack. I was about fifteen or twenty feet above the number one now, and placed my green point seven five cam into the horizontal crack and clipped it into the rope. Another quick shake, and once again I was on the move, over the small roof with an awkward high foot like I had done so many times before. My right hand worked up good slots, and with the placement of my feet I lunged to the flake hold with my left hand. I plugged the infamous-to-me final good piece, a gold number two, and took a few breaths, shaking out the increasing pump.

   "Really watch me here, Jacky!" I yelled to my friend. We had chatted about how if I fell above my last piece, he would have to run as far as he could in order to take slack out of the rope and minimize the possibility of me hitting the ground and ending my life. There wasn't a shred of doubt that Jacky would run across hot coals for me if he had too, and this gave me peace of mind. Some more easy climbing followed, and after a committing move to a good hold, I began to traverse about ten feet on decent holds and good feet that are far apart leaving you in a few splits positions. The end of this traverse is marked by a good flake, where my last two equalized pieces would be. I grabbed them and placed them, but I was shocked at just how bad they were. I remember John telling me you could find gear above the number two, but none would hold a fall. I thought I had outsmarted him, but once again the kid had proved himself a gumby as the one piece, a size double zero was tiny and shifted out of place. I didn't let this get to me until I tried to place the other one, the piece I had brought up was a size too big, and the one that would provide relative safety was sitting in my pack sixty feet or so below me. Despite this, I surprised myself with how calm I remained. I told myself there was nothing I could do but climb to the top and clip the chains. I shook out the ever growing pump on the flake. I was three quarters up the route, my last good piece was halfway up the route and I still had the crux ahead of me. The pump held at bay long enough for me to make one large move from the flake to another really good hold, and I shook out again then started up the crux.

   With a "watch me!", I was on my way. My mind was clear as my peripherals saw the blue water of the lake, and Jacky facing away from me ready to run and try to save his friend if need be. This was exactly where I was meant to be. The crux felt beautiful, and my mind was completely present and absent of fear. I shook out on the ledge that I needed to mantle to clip the chains, which were now only four or five feet above me. I heard Jacky yell motivation, and I reminded myself to stay in the zone and not celebrate until the anchors were clipped. Moments like these are difficult to put into words and are unique for everyone. Never in my life did I think I would find tranquility and happiness high on a wall of overhanging quartzite, literally with my life in my hands. Yet, there I was, dancing with death and feeling more alive than I ever had. I mantled the ledge and clipped the chains, and won't repeat the words that I shouted and echoed off the walls surrounding Lake Louise. The smile would not leave my face even when Jacky lowered me to the ground. We hugged and I belayed him and my friend Sebastian (my Patagonian neighbour who met us up there and wanted to give climbing a shot) for the rest of the evening, I was full. Full of life and what the future was to hold for me. While it wasn't going to make any headlines or shake the climbing world, it was a massive moment for me. It epitomized the mental growth I had underwent over the past two months, and I proved to myself I was mentally strong enough to climb dangerous routes, and with my drive and passion I knew the strength to climb the hard ones was inevitable. It truly is a beautiful life. As night fell we returned to Chucktown for my final evening in a blaze of glory, and partied the night away.

   It was a wonderful summer, and the rollercoaster continues to cumulatively go up. I owe much of this to my own drive and dedication, but ultimately to my friends and family. My parents didn't protest too much at the idea of their seventeen year old son living in Lake Louise and I have to thank them for that. My friends, both new and old lit up my world each day. Christopher McCandless once said that "happiness is only real when shared," and I can't help but feel incredibly grateful to share it with all the legends that were in my life this summer. Once, it was a laugh that didn't need translation with a Chinese family that picked me up hitchhiking. On one weekend, it was the incredible bender I barely survived, pointing the Jeep for Calgary to have one last evening with my friends before they embarked on their own adventures. On a few occasions I saw the familiar smiles of my two dear friends, Miguel and Emmett, as the three of us did more laughing than climbing. Other times, it was my friend Luke and I, getting lost and fending off a packrat before we even got on a climb that totally kicked our asses. On more comfortable occasions, it was my grandma's homemade pie that my roommates and I gorged on. It was the nights spent in Chucktown that started with something wild and ended with discussions of life on the couches of 308, or something less philosophical like watching Cong Island with the rad people of 307. It was the countless belays, volleyball games, laughs and adventures that all culminated into beautiful memories. I left Lake Louise sounding more Australian than Canadian and with a relentless smile and passion for life that burns bright as I write this. What a summer, and what a chapter in this ongoing adventure.