An Odyssey: All Along The Watchtower

 This is a story about gratitude, fear, adventure, death, life, and an odyssey that has been the cumulative experience of my life; a moment in which I have drastically changed. This is my human experience thus far, told through the tale of the megadream and the super reality of climbing The North Howser Tower via All Along The Watchtower.

*

I'm lying in my tent listening to "No Hard Feelings" by The Avett Brothers, and am going through a mental list of every person that I love in this world; I picture them smiling and tell them I love them. Every now and then David's feet hit my shoulder as he tosses and turns in his own ritual. There are no more rest days. No more "warm up" routes. The feet hitting my shoulder every now and then belong to a friend that I trust deeply.

 Man, am I grateful to be in here with someone as awesome as David. David Tan is a west coast local and one of the most just-for-fun bonecrushing climbers that I have ever known. He combines nonchalance and laser focus. I realized that despite seeing each other all over North America and casually climbing together a fair bit that we didn't actually know each other deeply at all. This can go either way of course, and it made me nervous. Luck would have it that David be about the best partner and friend that anyone could ask for when spending two weeks in close quarters and wild places. We pushed each other, weren't afraid to disagree, and mostly just laughed a lot and looked out for each other.

 At 3 am, about six hours from now, we will begin the action of climbing a "dream route": All Along The Watchtower, up the remote and mighty West Face of North Howser Tower. I try to block out the doubt and the fear and the thoughts of my mortality with the smiles of the people that I love. I try to tell myself that great moments come from great opportunity. Eventually it works, and I drift off into a short and shallow sleep.

The alarm comes too early. Neither of us are ready. I almost press the snooze button, but don't. I force myself up. David remains buried under his sleeping bag. As quietly as I can, I scurry over to the backpack rack, grab our food bag, and hear the calming sound of a stove whirring as I spark a lighter and begin to make coffee. David rolls over and tells me he didn't sleep well. I greet his concern with a tired nod. I am preoccupied with doing an inventory of the packed bag beside us, making sure we didn't forget anything; on our first day in the Bugs, we forgot a pair of climbing shoes and thought we forgot a second belay device when going to climb Sunshine Crack. It wasn't a big deal and we enjoyed a day of climbing on Energy Crisis instead, going back for Sunshine the next day. On the Watchtower, there is literally no going back to camp if you forget something; the approach includes four double rope rappels into a basin below the west face of North Howser. Once the ropes are pulled, you are committed. So, I busied myself with anxious inventory as David woke and smiled with instant coffee in his hands. Two breakfasts, eight Clif bars, three gel blocks, rack, ropes, climbing shoes, the stove once we're done cooking this breakfast, protein powder, Carl's ashes. It turns out that protein powder and the ashes of your friend look very similar, and I did a double thought to make sure the protein powder was in with the breakfast, and Carl's ashes were zipped into the pouch at the top of Alfred, our haul bag.

* 

I know he would find this funny. It has been a year and a half since his death. I've had the remainder of his ashes in my possession since a sunny June day last year when his girlfriend Sophie gave them to me in a mason jar. It is a fucking trip to have your friends girlfriend pass you what remains of your friend in a mason jar. 

Carl and I hiked into the Bugaboos two years ago with the shared dream of climbing All Along The Watchtower. We weren't even close to ready for it, a fact he knew better than eighteen year old I, and we lucked out by getting smacked down by a tent-collapsing blizzard that allowed us for risk free reflection. We mostly sat in a cave and drank whiskey. He encouraged me to nurture my stoke with experience, and assured me that one day. Maybe next year, maybe the year after, we would climb All Along The Watchtower. The raw beauty of the dream remained, but it wasn't time for it to become our reality. I ripped the topo out of the guidebook and pinned it to the ceiling of my minivan. It was an innocent but grand dream that became more and more wild with every step I took toward it. Then, Carl, my dream sharer, died ice climbing on Christmas Day of 2018.

Last summer, mason jar packed, I hiked into the Bugaboos with a friend to try the Watchtower and spread Carl's ashes on the summit. The stars didn't align and an attempt never came to fruition. Afterward, Carl's ashes sat in my glove box and accompanied me to many, many beautiful places that he never got to visit. There were many times where I wanted romanticize a place, take them out of the mason jar, spread them, and be done with it; glacier point, overlooking the Yosemite Valley that he never got to climb in; the many sun-kissed buttresses of Indian Creek, where he never got to see the sun dip between the six shooters and put sandy ear-to-ear grins on everyone’s faces at the crag. But every time I almost did, I knew it wasn't the right place. I knew that spreading them anywhere else would've been partly at least out of the fear of what it would take to go to the right place. The right place is, of course, North Howser Tower. All Along The Watchtower and the dream of climbing it remained innocent and grand, but the dream also grew a branch that wove its way through my process of grieving.

So after a year of having my buddy's ashes in my minivan, the sting is less sharp, and I am able to laugh at almost mixing his remains into our oatmeal and spreading vanilla protein powder on the summit of North Howser.

***

    Three am before the biggest adventure of your life is both lethargic and frantic. My mind thought of valid reasons to go back to bed and my hands went through the motions of the morning before I could tell them otherwise. Everything is packed. Crampons are on. So it begins.

    David and I are still both groggy and don't say much besides concern about the snow conditions and how they are much, much softer than when we were on the glacier two days prior en route to the South Howser Tower. We quickly ascended the staircase of bootpack cut into the Bugaboo-Snowpatch col. For the second time in three days we watched the sunrise over the Canadian Rockies and fill the Columbia Valley with orange hues. As the day progresses, action takes the place of "what if"s in my mind, and I feel calmer. The glacier is so consumingly beautiful, and the soft snow makes the descent down the Pigeon-Howser Col a fast glissade. In the East Creek Basin we are surrounded by a cirque of beautiful granite walls; turrets protecting a roadless valley that drains west into another roadless valley. As we neared the rappels I became increasingly nervous about the remainder of the approach. After four rappels comes a scurry across a feature called The Seventh Rifle Gully, a rockfall prone terrain trap that drains much of the west face. As we walked past the East Creek Campground we heard a rockfall somewhere. I jumped and hastily insisted on continuing and getting to the rappels as early as possible. David called out my irrational concerns, "that I can't be jumping at every rockfall." But he agrees that the sooner we are across the gully the better, and we move on, past the Beckey-Chouinard and across the snow beneath the Central Howser.

     Going up and over and around so many landmarks makes the approach sound like a nursery rhyme to me. Anxious tension built as we neared the rappels. At some point, David said, "I think we should definitely go to the rappels, but I am far from being totally committed to them." I feel the same way, and feel guilty about feeling the same way. I wonder if I'll come back next year if we turn around.

    David gets to the first rappel station before me; the guy is a wizard in his approach shoes. Now, we can see what we are getting ourselves into, what this dream really entails. There is no more romanticizing or simply going along with a plan that sounds good. Two bolts and two ropes and three thousand feet of rock are screaming at us, asking us if this really is what we want. Beside the rappels is a nice bivy cave. I don't know how someone could spend a night here. Never before have I spent time in a place whose energy is defined by so much voluntary tension. I feel sick. 

David says it: "If we don't thread these ropes right now I don't know if I can do this. Fuck. Fuck. We are fucking rapping into fucking El Cap!"

    In the words of Canadian Rockies legend John Lauchlan, "Once you commit, there can be no hesitation." It is 7:50 am. We have lots of time before the gully becomes dangerous and through conversation we realize that despite the fact that both of us are shitting our pants, and there is a voice in both of our heads screaming how bad of an idea this is, it is something that we both want to do. The next thing I know the ropes are threaded through my belay device and I am descending into a quiet and powerful world. David comes down. "Here we go buddy," he says, and pulls the rope.

    Four rappels later I find myself scurrying across the Seventh Rifle Gully, running through craters in the snow made by rockfall toward the base of the route. It reminds me of running up the stairs after turning the lights off in the basement. It all feels surreal, to be at the base of ALL ALONG THE WATCHTOWER! Now on the rock, David's anxiety dissipated and we began the only way there was to go: up. Our plan was to make it to the bivi ledges below the fork of another route, Armageddon, seven long pitches up according to the topo. This went according to plan with the alpine exceptions of getting off route, and the wet crack. Lord, the wet crack.

    The wet crack began with a "5.10 bouldery move" on the topo. I built a nest of a couple of small cams and an RP to protect the belay, and after some deliberation, committed. Because what else was there to do? Rap off our entire rack and walk the unknown distance around the massif back to the glacier? The holds had a small babbling brook running over them, but I slipped through unscathed, following a corner only graded at 5.7. The babbling brook on the 5.10 pitch came from a torrent running down the 5.7 corner. We did it in two pitches, and David ran out of rope on his lead, resulting in simul climbing situationally insecure terrain for some time. These are the parts that I do not want to overromannticize; waiting on two handjams in running water, getting soaked, wondering if David was okay 70 metres above. The rope would come tight, and with absolute trust in each other we would continue. This moment felt like dodging punches from a superior opponent in the ring; full survival mode, ducking, weaving and dodging the knockout punch. Tied together we held on tight to the wet hand jams of our life and avoided disaster. 

    The stream took us to the bivy ledges, and we arrived a few hours before darkness. Our gear had time to dry and our weary hearts had time to rediscover their courage through hot food and mountain vistas. We laid down our rope, half of a thermarest, and our sleeping bag, and settled in. We watched the sun set with full hearts. I couldn't believe where I was, and felt grateful to be there with David. The quiet mountains lulled us into a decent rest given where we were and what we were there with, and we would need it. Day two is the big one, the day that dreams are made of. A couple of pitches on a dyke feature lead to the “Left facing corner, to infinity and beyond”, according to the topo. With food in our bellies and no need for an early start on a west face, I think I can speak for both of us and say that the apprehension and nervousness was mostly exchanged for peace with our level of commitment and an intention to soak up the experience. After all, great moments come from great opportunity, and great is not always good or easy.

Morning came. We didn't anticipate the cold temperatures stopping the stream and had no water source and had to spend time melting snow. I led the first pitch while David tended to this task. He greeted me at the belay with the news that we were out of gas. We had a long time to go before we stopped, and there would be no hot meal awaiting us this time. At least we had water, and a radical corner system ahead.

The corner was surreal. No ledges or natural breaks, just one big, clean corner zooming skyward. Thirty metres at a time, David and I swung leads, placing small gear and doing insecure moves. Despite the inspiration of the situation, it was very difficult to climb calmly in such wilderness. The uninhabited valley was so far beneath our feet and whatever friends were climbing on the glacier to our east were separated from us by a massive granite massif. One move at a time we tried our best to dance in our intense solitude. I lacked grace and even composure, but thirty shaky, wild metres at a time, always ending at a hanging belay, we both freeclimbed our way through the corner to the roof. It was a dream come true. Not a dance of flow or mastery of the terrain the way that I had dreamed it, for this mountain was too big and its energy too powerful for me to be a master of its terrain. Instead, it was a humble practice of grit. With every strange stemming move, every painful shallow footjam, every look at the valley a thousand feet below my heels, the mountain was asking me questions: What is my true character? Did I want this to be an easy accolade? How am I going to interact with a place of such wilderness? Can I find that quality of wilderness within myself? Or will I be another trying to tame wilderness in a lame farce of ego? What is more of a farce than thinking that for some reason, I could go up such a wild and hard (for me) route and be in total control the entire time? One scary, shakey move at a time, I do believe that our souls danced elegantly as our minds raced with insecurity and our calves shook with exhaustion. 

When we arrived at the roof pitch marking the end of the major corner with free climbing dreams still alive, I felt a switch begin to flip. I really wanted to free climb this thing. Not for vanity (maybe a little, I'm writing about it after all), but for more of this practice in gritty dancing. The sun was very low in the sky as I climbed an amazing finger crack just below the roof. The wall had a shallow chimney behind the crack, and I stemmed my left foot and back behind me, jamming with my fingers and smearing my other foot. Way off the deck, now more in-tune with the rhythm of this mountain, I felt the tiniest shred of that cherry-on-top elegance that we sometimes get practicing our art. I began the roof nervous, trying to qualm any nervousness that I may actually squeak out a complete free climbing experience. I need not worry though, for soon the holds were obscenely, and now I know classically wet. Without frustration or regret I switched into aid climbing mode. It just wasn't right. It would've been a forced attempt to try to free climb it at that moment and it wouldn't have been true in my listening to the moment on the mountain. I don't know how to explain the peace in which I felt with my effort without sounding spiritually zany: the energy to really try to freeclimb this six metre traverse didn't exist in that moment. My decision wasn’t motivated by fear, or even haste. The holds were soaked, which I'm sure they almost always are, and it wasn't my place to dance at such a high level. In many ways this is exciting, as I now live the rare gift of a dream lived and laced with wonderful raw memory, but also still containing a five metre shred of mystery. And mystery is magic. 

Not that aid climbing was fast anyway. Due to my immaturely principled distaste for the act I don't have very much practice at it and was slow. David and his classic nonchalance was comforting to have on the other end of the rope. Perched thousands of feet off the deck, sitting in a harness for the fourth belay in a row, still jamming to reggae and smiling. Watching some jabroni nervously switch from aid to free, and back to aid, he just kept on jamming. “Waaaatch me David,”, and you know what he did? He jammed. All day he had Reggae blasting out of his pocket, and it was clear that he too was settled into the unique rhythm that he was dancing with the mountain. David led the next pitch, in a mix of free and aid, because in his words between laughter, "Man, I just realized at that last belay that right now I just don't give a fuck about free climbing." Normally, this would piss me off. Last winter in Chile I barked at my friend Jaron to come back to the belay after he sat on a cam on a pitch of a route we were climbing. But here, now, I began to realize that even though David and I were sharing an intense experience as human beings, we were also undergoing intense and unique experiences between ourselves and the place.. I know now one of the important aspects of partnership- one in which I've often fallen short: to support your friend in their experience with the mountain, not yours. 

He began climbing as the sun was setting, and it was beautifully frantic and fast. In a mix of french free, doing what he does best- moving with incredible speed and confidence, David led sixty metres of the rope up the next corner system. The off-white and grey granite of this massive west face was painted yellowy gold by the sun. We too, by association, shone with golden colours. Two souls, two drops of water in a golden ocean.  In that moment, paying out rope for my thriving friend, being swallowed by beautiful light, watching the rest of the valley undergo the same phenomena, I was overcome with emotion. I was so, so happy to be right where I was. I was so happy to be there with David. And at the same time I thought of Carl, and the loss that I thought I had grieved resurfaced in a profound and new way. I felt his presence intensely in a positive and empowering way. I felt so grateful to be trusted by those closer to him to have his ashes with me, and to have the opportunity to see this quest through. I also simply yearned for the original person in which I shared this dream to be there for its fruition. All Along The Watchtower was a teenage dream that I had to mature for before I could experience. Looking at the haul bag and thinking of my friend's ashes, looking up and seeing my friend pouring all of his energy into getting us higher, I felt a moment of coming of age and loss of innocence. In that moment in the golden light of the Bugaboos I wept tears. Not strictly of sadness nor joy nor fear nor elation. I wept tears of the human experience.

I followed the pitch clean, not out of spite or principle, it was just what I wanted to do. While moving, my legs were becoming weak and shaking out of control. We had long run out of water. The exhaustion began to sneak up on me and hit me like a rock. One more pitch to the easy stuff, and it was my lead. Enter the banshee finale of our time on the headwall. 

When I asked my dear friend Dane (who had climbed the Watchtower last year) about the route, he gave us amazing and indispensable information. Without him our experience would've been very different. For the last pitch of the headwall though, he just giggled and said "I'll save that one as a surprise. It is awesome." Dane is a power-lifter, ice climber, master of the epic, and 23 going on tough as fucking nails. His innocent and wholesome giggle made me nervous for what was to come. The topo said “5.8 4 inch crack.” I grabbed my number 4 cams and took off into the 5.11 terrain, inching toward the wide flake above and to my right.

I was so, so tired. It was all I could do to stay on on the 5.11. I placed cam after cam after cam in close distance, completely untrusting of my screaming body and working with a mind exhausted from being in the zone for two straight days. Grovelling, I made it to the wide flake. Thank god. 5.8. How hard could it be? I really should know better by now. Every muscle in my body ached and cramped as I let out screams, not of ferocious fight but rather of pain and complete inferiority. At some point I believe I literally begged the Bugaboo granite for mercy. I hung on like a kid on a rollercoaster that really doesn't want to be there: White knuckled, shitting my pants, making it a way bigger deal than it needed to be, but alive, and ready for ice cream.

No ice cream. No water. No food- save premade peanut butter banana wraps that had gone dank in the haul bag. No gas. Just the midnight sky, a long convoluted ridge, and a brother to rely upon. I led another strange vision quest pitch of 5.8 and then totally bonked. David noticed this after trying to have a basic conversation with my wide eyes, and offered that he would lead us up the scrambling for a while. A gentleman and a baller! We stayed roped and settled into the night, keeping our eyes open for a bivy site that Dane told us about. 

A distant lightning storm to the south offered no sound and thus no fear, only momentary awe from time to time. The wind was dormant and a meteor shower zoomed its way across the sky above us. Midnight became one, then two, then, sometime around three, we saw some nice flat ledges that David suggested we spend the night on. I stubbornly disagreed and insisted we keep on going until we find a spot with water. Wrong move. He obliged. I can be a real turd sometimes. 

Three became four to the tune of the flash of the southern storm and the whimsical travels of meteors overhead. The wind remained calm. We got to a confusing section of ridge with snow and four became four thirty. We got through it and took a peek above the next little bluff to see if we could put the rope away. Our little peek showed us that there was no more terrain to climb, and at five in the morning, my friend David Tan and I stood on top of the summit of North Howser Tower, just as red began to appear in the east.

The summit was calm and the sky clear. We laid out the half-thermarest and our sleeping bag, laid down, listened to The War On Drugs and Eddie Vedder, and enjoyed the scene. For two hours of the most supreme peace I have ever known, we watched the world be beautiful.

I awoke from a nap to a blue sky and a hot sun. David was awake beside me.We knew that it was time to begin our rappels down the east face, and begin our journey home. While he rolled the sleeping bag and organized gear, I quietly walked over to where the summit overlooks the steep west face with a ziploc bag of Carl Hawkins' remains in my pocket. In all the other places which I held these ashes in my hands and thought about scattering them, I just wanted to rid myself of this sadness, of this loss; an act of hastily moving on but not going forward. A part of me didn't ever think I'd actually end up here. Here in this place of ultimate wilderness, a place that was kindred to the spirit of Carl, it was a wonderfully underwhelming act. Handful by handful I released his remains. My eyes were watery and I got a little bit of ash on my jacket. The actual act of scattering ashes  is a lot harder than people make it out to be! 

There was no ridding of sadness or loss and I now know that this is not the way forward: "Do not let sorrow die for it is the sweetening of every gift." -Cormac McCarthy. It was not what have I rid myself of, but what I gained through this quest: an understanding of peaceful continuity; glimpses into the mysteries of the universe; a deeper understanding of the spirit, and love and life and death. I gained gratitude for the people that are here now and the love we share, and the possibility that there is magic around each corner if we are willing to summon the courage to look.

David and I rappelled, unfreed a stuck rope, drank water, hopped over the bergschrund, and stumbled back to Applebee with our cups very very full. We were greeted by a strong force of community. Hugs, relief that we had returned, congratulations on our adventure; even a note stuck to a borrowed cam read aloud by our friend Rhys as we caught him and another friend, Tony, on their way out of camp. We all shared stories of the last few days' adventures. Everyone was getting it while the getting was good; the joy of weather windows in the mountains! It was overwhelming, humbling, and happy.

And it all began two years ago, with two friends merrily drinking whiskey in a cave in the same camp, dreaming about what it would be like to one day climb All Along The Watchtower.

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

It is five pm on Monday, November 11. 

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

“Dance the dance tomorrow.”

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

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

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

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

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

"Yar." 

   It is five pm on Monday, November 11. 

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

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

It is five pm on Monday, November 11. 

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

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

       -Yelp review on our  all night descent 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am not kidding!”

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

“Get down here! I am not kidding!”

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

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

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

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

YAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRR! 

The Rat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Transit Collage. Photos: Kyle Martino and myself.

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

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

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

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

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

Chumming over weird music videos. Photo: Pavel Toropov

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

Spot the foreigners. Market day in Liming!

Liming dance party!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you, Carl

   

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

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

   Nine months, and Carl, have passed. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bugaboo cave dwelling

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

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

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

Carl Hawkins in the mountains. 

   

     

An Absent Lesson on Presence

An Absent Lesson on Presence

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

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

This guy fights fires! 

This guy designs buildings! 

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

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

Jacky Soong photo.

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

The clouds that cleared

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is hope.

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

1 From Bernadette McDonald’s Freedom Climbers

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