The Swinging Pendulum

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Creek :

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

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

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

On Climbing and Woodworking

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

***

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

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

***

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The exact same! I couldn’t believe it! 

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

***

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

the Cold and the City and the Warmth of the Gritty

December, to me, is the city.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It Takes A Village: Friendship, Failure, and a First Ascent

It Takes A Village and The beautiful Bow Valley. Photo by Mason Neufeld

Do you ever feel like you’re on a dock, looking out at a big sea and wondering what it is like? 

Maybe you even went as far to dip your toes into the waters of the harbor. 

Maybe you blinked, and a succession of moments whirred by. Now you’re in the middle of that big sea amongst its waves and its glassy waters and its storms and its sunsets.

In December of 2018, I think my toes were in the water of the harbour. I was eighteen, and had been climbing for about a year and a half. It was quickly becoming more than a fun weekend activity. I had recently returned from my first American road trip, and was beginning to understand my own vision of my climbing and where I wanted it to go. I found myself most satisfied off the beaten trail. The world class sport climbing crags of my original home, The Bow Valley, didn’t quite feed the rat the way they once did. And the rat was hungry. I took the often spoken words of “endless potential” in the area very seriously, and began to gaze out at the endless seas of limestone with dreamy intention. Hiking to whatever caught my eye, I would believe in every undeveloped pile of choss right up to the moment where I could touch it (and take it with me), and my “dream line” would crumble. The questing kept my spirit warm in those shockingly cold months of early winter in Canada. Plus, I learned at a young age that unicorns must be believed in to be seen, and I stood firmly by this principle when looking at limestone cliffs of varying quality. 

That December, Christmas came early. My friend Kyle and I were on a wintery ascent of Heartline, a classic rock moderate on the west side of Heart Mountain. On the morning of the second day of our climb, beautiful rays of light shone on the east side of the valley. Above the dense forest and amidst a collection of rambly, snow covered cliffs sat a bullet like slab, completely free of snow- or any visible features for that matter. It didn’t sparkle like the rest of the dusted slopes. From a distance, it was intimidatingly blank.

Kyle and I's first view of the cliff. 

A few weeks later, my friend Bella and I quested up the west side of the Heart Creek Valley with a rough idea of where the cliff was. It took us three hours and a rappel that missed the cliff entirely, but our day ended with Bella disappearing down a rope we fixed off of a tree and breaking momentary cold silence with “holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit!”.

When I rappelled in for the first time, I knew that I would spend a lot of time in this place. I was totally entranced by the setting. Even the three hours of post-holing to get there was magical. As Bella and I crunched moss under powdery snow, we marveled at how remote it felt despite being so close to one of the Bow’s busiest summer crags. We joked that we had entered a different realm, and that this may be the place of a mystical Sunday Morning Book Club for Lions, Tigers, and Bears. The Book Club became the nickname for the crag. 

Perched hundreds of metres above the west slopes of Heart Creek Canyon, The Book Club is a twenty five metre tall by thirty metre wide slab of some of the most beautiful stone in The Bow Valley. Upon first seeing it up close, I screamed with excitement. The exposure below my feet was exhilarating. I imagined feeling the wind and the green blur of tree tops as I edged dime-sized footholds. I imagined whippers into the open air. I imagined the beautiful movement that would allow passage up this wall. It was even more intimidatingly blank up close. I felt a profound feeling of gratitude and connection with the natural world. This was not something to conquer, but a place to learn from, cherish, and experience. I tried to hold on to those virtues throughout it all. I both succeeded and failed at this.

My personal discovery of The Book Club made me believe deeply that my climbing could transcend from activity into a practice of art.

My friend Tyson and I spent many winter weekends swinging around The Book Club looking for holds and dodging near-misses. We borrowed a drill from our friend Niall, and later another one from our friend Michelle. After a few weeks of laughter, snowmen, and many cigarettes, we had sunk the handful of bolts we had into the wall, equipping one route each. One of my best friends and I had beautiful unclimbed projects right beside each other. It was special. We knew it and savoured it.

Tyson Martino and I. Indian Creek 2019. Photo by Sarah "Berta Boy" Johnston

The winds of change blew me away from the Bow Valley before temperatures were warm enough to try the route in earnest. Most of the sequences remained elusive that spring. I wanted a process, and I got a long one.

I blinked. And a succession of moments happened. I was fully cast adrift into a violent sea of dreams. I went to China on a life changing trip. Then back to Squamish and  another American road trip funded by a line of credit. I blinked, and I had grown  from an entertained teenager into a committed twenty year old apprentice to the craft.

 Whenever I was passing through Canmore, I would wrangle whatever friend was in town and head up to The Book Club to continue my journey. Holds broke, and what I presumed to be the crux—at about bolt five—remained puzzling. More sequences were unlocked, and more remained elusive. I was deeper and deeper into the process of climbing a line that inspired me to my core. I blinked, and was in the big sea a younger me would look out and ponder at. Storms or sunshine, there was nowhere else I wanted to be. The Book Club remained a guiding waypoint on my horizon.

Just before the pandemic came to Canada, my hero-turned-best-buddy Jim Elzinga saw me cooking some oatmeal outside of my minivan-home on a particularly frigid morning. He invited me to his place for warm espresso, and we began ice climbing and training for our individual goals together consistently. Then, the world turned upside down and Jim was one of the few people in my social pod. Our early pandemic days were like a Rocky Balboa montage. We fucking raged. 

When it came time to climb again, I ventured up to The Book Club with my friend Ethan. Feeling the confidence from hangboarding and the reverb intimidation from Jim screaming at me to try harder during our training sessions, I began to learn the nuances of the cliff. Little ripples demanded absolute trust to be usable. The pain of the razor sharp edges was not be wished away, but to be relished; even sought after. On that cool spring day with Ethan I almost did all the moves; I couldn’t muster the courage for the top runout to the chains. The process slowly continued. It started raining in Canmore and the thought of linking all the moves was laughable, I simply wasn’t there. I ditched the Rockies for my summer home of Squamish. My long distance love affair with The Book Club continued. The last casual passing-by mission was with one of my dear friends, Luke Dean. Luke is easy to be around and stoked to the moon. He was the perfect partner for the day. I was nervous. I really wanted to do all the moves and move on in the process. He steered the direction of the day into a positive place with his music, jokes, and shouts of encouragement. I pulled all the moves out of my ass, shaking like a leaf on the final runout, which was determined to be purely mental and totally safe. It was possible, but still felt eons away. Luke, the undying optimist, denied this claim of it being far away. He told me if I was serious about it I should just give it the devotion that it deserves, and see what happens. 

Wise Luke Dean. I have no clue who took this photo. Probably Sam Tucker. Maybe Tyson?

It had been over a year since I first bolted the route. It was too hard for me to be treated so casually. There comes a time in process where you either hone in or risk it diluting into a “what if”. I was at this crossroads. No more dipping my toes in, when I had already paddled out to the high seas. His words turned gears in my head, churning out big questions. What are you willing to give? Are you okay with committing, and failing? Does this matter to you?

I had to put my cards on the table.

In September, I quit yet another part time job in Squamish and with the undying support of Mason, headed east. I was done half-assing this rig. I wanted to live this dream. I was a man on a mission. We zoomed to Canmore, and then up the hill to The Book Club. Trying to ride a manic wave of commitment, I fell almost immediately, and couldn’t make it to the top. I was frustrated and felt defeated. Mason pointed out the classic trap that I had fallen into; just because I “cared” didn't make me entitled to the outcome I wanted. She talked some sense into me and encouraged me to try again with less pressure and expectation. I did, and had a lot more fun. Right! Fun! I tried to shed my entitlement and honour the pure vision of the younger me; that younger me, looking out into the sea of the unknown.

What’s the point of casting yourself adrift if you ask the open ocean to be as comfortable as the beach?

I began a motion of devotion. Alone— where I would nerd out on the subtleties of the movement and learn about humility in such a grand place—or with Mason and friends where we would laugh and fall and laugh and fall. Each day, I would hike up the mossy hill to the wall of my dreams, and continue where I left off. Progress is not linear. I was falling all over the route at seemingly random places. The links I was making didn’t make much sense. One day, out of nowhere, I did the entire route in one hang. Maybe Luke I was right. Each day I would talk with Tyson on the phone; he was in deep on a project of his own elsewhere and we would give each other updates and encouragement. He told me to flip the switch. Perhaps it was time to write the final page.

On a day of great conditions and energy. Mason, our friend Kenton, and I, hiked up to the wall. There was magic in the air. The beautiful process was coming to a close. It felt like a storybook ending of a day. Kenton and I blasted music as Mason positioned herself on a line to take photos and video. I blasted off onto the blank wall focused and determined. 

Photo by Mason Neufeld

My shot at magic ended abruptly twice that day, with two different holds breaking. One of them popped off the wall right after I used it to clip the quickdraw below the crux. I thanked circumstance and the universe for deciding it wasn’t my day to hit the dirt. 

Taking a lil baby whipper. Photo by Mason Neufeld

My skin needed a rest, and I needed to step back before I fell into an overthinking cyclone of pressure and expectation. I didn’t want to feel frustrated again, and knew that stepping back was the next move. I escaped to my childhood wonderland of the Ram River with my Dad for a few days of fishing. Fishing, like climbing, is often just a fun way to spend time with people you love. After two days, I felt refreshed, still ever consumed by the blank wall of limestone that lurks above Heart Creek. I was excited to return and try to see it through.

My awesome Dad, the man who taught me to explore.

Life had different plans. My minivan- my home for the better part of the last two years, died in the Heart Creek parking lot. This minor and privileged inconvenience spiraled into an intense existential crisis that is too long and pathetic to get into in detail. I didn’t handle it with grace and climbing was the last thing on my mind. We tried to hike up anyway, but I was an anxious, teary eyed wreck. We turned around.

The following morning, Mason, my Mom, my Dad, Matt, and a few strangers and I pushed my minivan onto a rented U-Haul tow dolly hitched to my Dad’s truck. People showed up for me, and I was both embarrassed and very grateful. After getting the van to my folks place, where it could sit while its fate was determined, Mason and I decided to go back up to The Book Club. My goals had radically changed and I was just trying to gun it to the crag without breaking down in tears. 

Mission accomplished! We were psyched to be in the company of each other, and Matt, who was busy bolting two more routes on the wall. Conditions were far from perfect; it was hovering around zero degrees and there were some angry clouds lurking up the valley. I didn’t care anymore. Things had been put into perspective. It was less intense now. I thought less about how I wanted to feel. I just wanted to go climbing and enjoy the place with my friends.

Matt finished his work on another route and swung over to the small grassy ledge below the line that I had bolted, which was now an array of chalked holds and tick marks, a piece of rock that I knew every ripple of. We bumped numb fists and I set off thinking I would get to the crux and my numb fingers would give out.

Photos by Mason Neufeld

I did the first three bolts of thin, sharp climbing relatively fast. As I shook out on the good hold below the crux, I was numb, but knew I could get the feeling back if I was patient. Slowly, rotating which hand held on to the wall, the sensitivity on my fingertips came back. Without much thought, I entered the crux.

It went by in a blur I do not remember. I remember grabbing a very small right hand at the end of the crux and being completely numb, but not falling. I made it to a stance where I was more on my feet than my hands, and hoped for the blessed phenomena known as the “screaming barfies”, where warm blood enters frozen hands in a flurry of pain and nausea. Warm hands follow the pain. 

The “barfies” never came. My hands stayed numb. I began to lose the flow I felt through the crux, and it turned into a mental game. I reasoned with myself that I had nothing to lose, and I might as well believe in each hold as though I could feel it perfectly. 

After a couple tricky sequences, I did one final hard lock off and was standing on my feet, with four moves separating me from the anchor. It began to snow fat, wet flakes. The flow was completely gone, replaced by a sort of warrior mode. One committing sequence between closing the book or turning the page to yet another blank spread. It was time to honour the dreamer with action. I mustered the courage to continue, celebrated a little early and almost blew it, and clipped the chains that I had equipped a year and a half earlier. 

For a long time, I had imagined what it would feel like to clip those chains. I imagined the glory and happiness. In reality, it was mostly underwhelming disbelief. I asked Matt and Mason if I had hung on a bolt or grabbed the fixed rope. I couldn’t believe what had happened. My hands warmed as I lowered, and the reality that I had just climbed the route set in. It was a beautifully turbulent process, and it was over. All at once, I learned, yet again, that life is about process. Completion is a bittersweet part of that process. If you get it right, it isn’t a moment of relief. It is a sort of death of an experience that has taken a life of its own. 

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. (Tennyson)

I was lowered to hugs. We celebrated. 

Matt smiled, and said, “So, what is it called?”

I looked at my friend and girlfriend, both smiling big. I thought of my parents and their unconditional love and support. My mind drifted to Tyson and all the times we froze our asses up here and ran down the hill for a cheap thrill. I thought of Luke and his goofy grin. I thought of all the other people that had brought this vision to life in some way. Michelle, Niall, Ethan, Dane, Jim, Bella, Kenton, Emmett, Liam, Chris, Jacky, the random people who pushed my van onto the dolly, and all the homies who wished me luck and kept the fire burning.

I had tossed around a lot of names over the year and a half, ranging from blatantly vulgar to social commentary on the systemic racism that plagues our society. In that moment, I could only think of one phrase: 

It Takes A Village.

It does seem as though I blinked, and a succession of moments whirred by culminating in a reality that was once a big, intimidating dream for other people to live out. It does seem that way, but I didn’t blink. I was pushed to go forward and helped back up onto my feet when I fell. I was believed in, and frankly by circumstance given the privilege to live an arbitrary, artistic life.

***

The snow came down hard. We moved ten metres to the left, and in the midst of an Autumn blizzard, I belayed Matt on his first attempt on a line he envisioned and bolted.

Approach Beta/Nerdy Details 

THE BOOK CLUB is a rappel accessed crag that currently has one completed line and three open projects (as of October 10). It is a scrappy, adventurous crag where all are welcome. 

In my overstoked opinion, it is some of the best stone in the valley, and offers a unique climbing experience. When I was in the process of bolting It Takes A Village, an older local told me that it “shouldn’t be another clip up”. On that note, none of the routes are total clip ups, and more reminiscent of Smith Rock’s bolting ethic. This place has a much more adventurous feel to it than other crags in the area and I believe that is part of what makes it special.  If you like trying hard off the beaten path, welcome home.

All that being said, it isn’t a reckless place to rock climb.

 Not wanting to sandbag anyone, I did all of the moves ground up “onsight”, hanging the draws before pre hanging and extending the top two with double length slings for redpoint attempts. It is exciting, but totally awesome and safe. The setting of the wall and the climbing itself feels so wild, and I wanted my personal experience to be of the same breath. I was looking for a mental challenge as well as a physical one. You will probably climb it, and call it a clip up, and me a coward!

(As of October 10 2020) The bin at the crag has both a rope to fix for rappelling and jugging out, as well as a rope to lead. I also left two double length slings to extend the last two bolts of It Takes A Village. I hope you do it better style than me, but having those draws extended is nice. The anchor has a brand new locker and non locker on the respective bolts.  All you need to bring are 10 draws, a personal anchor, a grigri, and a device for ascending the rope (jumar, microtraxion, etc.) 

Seriously, it is such a magical place!

To approach:

Hike to “The Bayon” crag at the back of Heart Creek Canyon. 

Once at The Bayon, circumvent the crag climbers right and follow a trail up an obvious drainage. Take the first obvious path up a short hill on the left (washed out dirt, less than 2 minutes from Bayon) When it flattens out, immediately go right up a ridgeline following a small but good trail. The trail weaves slightly left and onto another ridge feature, and then switchbacks its way up a steep hill. When in doubt, head straight up. Eventually, you should come to a lower cliff band. There is potential for moderate development as well as a couple of Bayon style hard, short routes. Circumvent this band climber’s right until you can go upward in the trees to gain a crest. The view should be totally bitchin’ by now. Head left up the crest you’ve gained toward the top of the hill you are on. Once at the top, you should see a green bin in the clearing.

Instructions are in the bin for how to get to the rappel access, but I will also describe it here.

More or less head straight toward Heart Mountain, it should look like the ground drops away quite dramatically. Follow cairns to the most perfect looking “J shaped” tree. Fix your rope on this wonderful tree and thank it for its service. What an awesome tree! This tree takes you to the anchors of It Takes A Village. To the climber’s left is Bookend Left, an open project bolted by Matt Sourisseau. To the climber’s right is a project bolted by the prodigal son Tyson Martino which has a lot of question marks surrounding it and I don’t recommend going for it yet (might need a bolt). Further right is another route bolted by Matt, Bookend Right. There is a rope across the base that you can use to skirt your way. Practice caution rappelling and skirting your way around the base of the cliff. There is a pesky rodent that loves ropes down there.

The cliff is east facing and gets morning sun.

Try hard, have fun, and take care of your friends and yourself.

Nat Bailey

4039904074

nbailey5@live.com

The Moonlight Buttress! Round One

   "Do you ever close your eyes, and try to remember a moment perfectly?" Danny's question hung suspended in the quiet air. He went on. "You know, remember what it smelt like, how you felt, what you saw." I looked at the point where towering sandstone met glimmering stars. I peered over the ledge and savored the inky blackness below my feet. I could smell the whiskey on my lips, and looked over at my friend who was as lost in it all as I was.

We were on the Moonlight Buttress in Zion Canyon. The last shuttle bus had come and gone, and we were the only ones in a very grand space.

"Yes. Yes I do," I replied with the peacefulness of walls and stars on my breath.

"When I go back to work next week, I'm going to close my eyes and go back to right here." Danny said. We went back to a long and good silence, the kind of which I have only experienced a handful of other times.

This conversation happened on a bent portaledge about thirty meters off the ground. Earlier, while the sun was still high in the sky, we were sharing a small foot ledge below the crux pitch. Our dreams of onsighting Moonlight had survived the first trial of "The Rocker Block" pitch. Now, the hardest climbing on the entire route was about fifteen meters above us. I racked up and took off with the blankest mind I could muster. The gear was finnicky and I wasn't up to the task. I pitched off, ripped an arbitrary piece out of the crack and sat in my harness.

We were joined by two awesome strangers,  Josie and Becca. We had a portaledge party and the four of us traded attempts on the crux. Everyone was going for it, and encouraging the other three to do the same. The energy was infectious. Becca and Josie were planning to return the next day, and wished us well before descending. On our following attempts, Danny and I both fell a move away from the end of the hard stuff. Climbing is so all in; whether or not you move your foot twelve more inches determines whether you will continue up the route, or lower back down to try again. At least that was the rules that we were excited to play by. I had not freeclimbed up high in a while, and I forgot about those magical moments that come with trying to live a dream; when the wind and the occasional click of a carabiner are the only sounds that exist. Regardless of outcome, for a moment, the universe is a simple place consisting of pulling with your hands and pushing with your feet. It is the best!

Ledge party!!! Thanks for the photo @beccabeatbox!!!! 

On my fourth attempt, I pitched off again trying to get my foot in a pod. My body convulsed with cramps, and I knew that it wasn't in the cards. I returned to the ledge where Danny and I dined on a pizza that we had pre-cooked. We listened to good music. Music so good in fact, that Danny was motivated enough to slam some pre-workout mix and have one more go. Hell yes. 

For a few minutes, once again, our concerns with the universe were silenced. The pre-workout did little to sooth the cramping from our time in the sun earlier, and Danny fell in a similar fashion to me. We put our cards on the table, and they weren't the winning hand.

We made the decision to live and die by the redpoint sword. Climbers play their ascents out by their own arbitrary set of rules. Ours was to not continue until at least one of us had sent the pitch at hand. This sounds marvelous on the ground beforehand, and even more marvelous when you're onsighting and things are going your way. It feels a little less marvelous when you blow the onsight. When you fall on your third, and fourth attempt, the marvel is gone and you begin to question your arbitrary ethics. Arbitrary as they may be, it felt right to try something that mattered in the way that we saw fit. We also thought it was important not to abandon principle upon failure.

Also, my girlfriend and Danny's wife had planned to meet us on the top. Mason, my girlfriend, is a brilliant photographer and was keen to rappel in and shoot us on the last few photos. We knew that we weren't going to make it up there, and without any way to contact them, had to beat them to the shuttle stop so they didn't hike to meet with two absent punters. 

So, we rappelled most of the way down, stopping about thirty meters from the ground, because we were both still psyched to sleep on the ledge.

It is so easy to fall into a trap of taking yourself too seriously, especially when you begin to find a level of objective success at your passion. Seemingly all at once, self worth is placed in your ability to climb a certain grade, and in the wake of that destructive value are all the ugly things; expectation, frustration, envy. 

Failure lacks opportunity for any sort of negative value system. There is no external validation, no accolade to hold and wave. Instead, you are left with only your personal thoughts on your experience. Did you have fun? Are you content with your effort, and excited to try again? What did you learn? What mattered most? 

What am I trying to say? That process is everything, and letting self worth ebb and flow with objective failure and success is a dead end, and frankly scary road. 

And what a gift it is that climbing has no ceiling. That you can fail, and try again with the power of what you learned; that you can rediscover the attitude of the kid that was psyched to flail on a 5.9, and take it to more inspiring venues. "To take your climbing seriously, but not yourself seriously," as Peter Croft said in his Enormocast interview.

So, we tried as hard as we could until we shivered with cramping muscles. We shared the ledge and laughs with new friends. Then we sat, side by side, thirty meters off the ground and half into a bottle of Jameson. Scheming, philosophizing, and wishing to be nowhere else. And the beat goes on, hopefully more this way than that. 

Thank goodness for failure, and the compass that it is.