Happiness is a Goofy Thing

   Upon my return from Smith Rock, I found my wide eyes looked at the world differently. The grand became more grand, and the bland became more bland.

   Spring in the Rockies is a time of magic. The harsh Rockies winter is being cornered by the warming sun, but lashing back with violent avalanches. It is as if it is a final display of power by a proud beast before it recoils into the void, vowing to return again. The creeks are beginning to swell, and on the other end of the scale the rock is beginning to dry. Keeners wade into spring projects, eager to get after it. My psyche has been shot into space, perpetually rising eternally.

   The grand is grand.

    This inspiration and happiness made the return to the willing participation in the rat race stark. My energy was being drained by work rather than utilized on climbing, and for what? Every answer I could think of felt awkward and difficult to accept, as they all lead to dead ends: Work a crappy job, climb tired in the evenings, pay rent so I can comfortably work a crappy job. My light was being drained, and shone into a room that hid no treasure.

   The bland is bland.

   Fuck that!

   The next week was a flurry of action fuelled by passion. Once freedom is tasted, the soul rejects mediocrity. Once frugality is tasted, the bank account rejects rent. The teal paint of my minivan absorbed the sun like never before, for it knew it was its time to shine. Hutch the minivan realized his potential in the barehands-built shop belonging to my grandfather. Thanks to the generational collaboration of great minds, my ticket to freedom was punched. The process of watching your childhood heroes and biggest fans turn your minivan into your home is a total spectacle. Climbing rocks is really cool, but unconditional love and support is cooler.

Dream team!

   I pulled my anchor that was the job holding me in emotional backwater, and the current soon swept me downstream with joyful refreshment. On a whim birthed out of the promise of a job interview half drunkenly applied for, my life was packed into eight totes. My internal compass sent me west and I soon embarked on a classic Canadian climbing pilgrimage to the promised land: Squamish. Rod Stewart would have said that "paradise was closed, so I headed to the coast" (in a blissful manner indeed). I disagree. Paradise is wide open, and it is found in the wide open. The Rockies bid me adieu with a sunset for the ages. I looked at the sea of peaks that I so dearly cherish, and thought of the friends that filled the Bow Valley with love. A part of my heart will always be reserved for the people and the peaks of the Rockies. I consulted mentors about the move, and had beers with best friends weighing the privileged options. They pushed me forward, as good friends do, as I hope I do in reciprocation. I smiled as I left the range, knowing that I would be back for many adventures. Soon, everything I knew was in the rearview. The darkness added to the mystique of my standing. I laughed and inhaled joy as the brisk air flew through my short hair. My somehow now wider eyes (how many times can I say "wide eyes" until my eyes are too wide, and my face loses all symmetry?) looked introspectively and plainly at the oxymoronic beauty of my situation. The best way to explain my feelings is through an oddly formatted series of plain statements. Some of them are societally perceived as negative, and my pursuits can be interpreted as contrived. (Climbing rocks is contrived? Since when?) Luckily, I constantly have my fist stereotypically raised against the man and don't give a shit about what you think, unless you completely agree with all my choices and have nothing new to contribute, in which case please reach out and stroke my ego.

   The introspection left me with my head out the window and screaming a battlecry against the mundane:

   1. You might not even have enough money to get to Squamish.
   2. You don't have a job yet.
   3. You don't have an address.
   4. You've never climbed the style of rock that is in Squamish.
   5. You are probably going to suck at it at first.
   6. You are making a major life decision based off of a bunch of large pieces of inanimate rock.
6.66. You chose this.
6.9. You chose this! Rad!
   7. I think a bug just flew into my mouth.
   8. A bug definitely flew into my mouth.
   9. I wonder what the protein specs were on that bad boy.
  10. Does this mean I'm not a vegetarian anymore?
   420. Awesome.

   Happiness is a goofy thing.

Beyond The Picnic Tables

Beyond the Picnic Tables

South of Madras, there is a rather insignificant hill that is homogenous to the plethora of dry farmland that covers central Oregon. After double digit hours in a car, the hills blend and the trees pass on a familiarity to each other as they blur past. But not this hill. This hill was the final opaque medium before the promised land. After Liam announced that we could see “it” over the hill, my grogginess left my body and was replaced with eager anticipation. I could see this theme was unanimous with my three friends in the car. The hill ended, and what came next was a view that no internet research can prepare for, and a feeling of excitement that only an individual at the headwaters of total freedom can feel. The volcanic tuff shot out of the Crooked River; the formations are grand, and unique, like a collection of an artists’ best work (Not you, jesus). My hair that Liam would later cut in a city park in Bend flew in the wind and my nose took in all the American freedom it could handle.

Smith Rock, Oregon.

The homies.

Two weeks.

SPRING BREAK BITCHES!!!!!

I just passed the hill, and am discussing with Luke how I sum this trip up in a piece that isn’t so long only my Grandma will read it (Lynn, you’re a legend!) but paints the picture of this trip in the vivid colours that it deserves. The last two weeks were eye opening and a glimpse into the lifestyle that I envision myself living for some time to come. My time in Smith Rock legitimized climbing as a lifelong pursuit. I now know that I am not someone who climbs, I am a climber. The happiness and freedom are just too fulfilling to even consider doing anything else. The last two weeks have been incredibly full. Full of power screams, terrifying falls, apple pipes, sunsets, and magical moments where the universe is stripped down to the howling laughter of a friend, or the howling wind and the air beneath a smeary foothold that finally doesn’t pop. It is all absolute gold.

The beauty of having extended time doing solely what you love is that the days both blend and stick out at the same time. The day of the week never enters your mind, and life begins to roll like a mountain stream, slowing down in eddy’s when the time is right, and moving swiftly at others. The water is always cold, the views are always beautiful. Of course however, there are moments that stuck out. These are the moments that are embedded and now, as a mosaic with all of the other magic moments, inspire everything that I do. Reiterating, each second was cherished, but these are the seconds that seemed to last forever, and were gone before I knew it. Nothing gold can stay, but the dirt is always rich if you keep digging. 

Our trip was full of characters, and the story cannot be told without the characters being unveiled. Luke Dean is a thrift shop connoisseur, plans his outfits for the crag, and is the most driven person I have ever met. Ben Freeman is the pride of Nanton, Alberta. A lover of man spreading, he’s a goofy guy that pulls hard and takes lots of photos. Liam Haigh eats tons of kale, climbs with a certain elegance, and is a friend that became a total friggin bestie on the trip. Later, we were joined by the Martino brothers. Tyson and Kyle are good at pushing each others buttons and even better at climbing. Tyson has become a close friend thanks to our mutual love for Enya and his pure excitement about being alive. Kyle is a firefighter in training and earned the nickname Maguyver after sewing my Uggs and taping his phone to a pair of binoculars because telephoto lenses are far too expensive. We were also joined by Luke’s cousin Easton and his hilarious Californian slang. Our crew was rag tag to say the least. While some nights we were a bit of a mess thanks to cranberry juice and oregano, each morning began with a walk into the park during which our psyche would bounce off of each other, snowballing and culminating with each conversation. I’m proud of the friends I went to Smith Rock with for the sole reason that I know that we did not leave anything down there. It is special to be apart of a collective that is committed to pouring themselves into something and I am forever grateful.

The following is a collection of beautiful moments that have now turned to memories, forever engrained in my mush brain. 

Waves Through The Rope- Voyage of the Beans 

As Luke danced through the last pitch of “Voyage Of The Cowdog”, I was jubilant, and inspired by his composure. Last August, I was on the other end of the rope when Luke had a full on panic attempt during an attempt at a big multi pitch in the Bow Valley. It was a different person belaying me up to the perch that marked the end of the route. Not only was it evident with his trademark climbing style: Like a precise ballroom dance that still has a splash of artistry dusted on top of it. I could see it in his eyes, and hear it in his voice. The fear wasn’t gone, we all know that it never leaves. But it was dealt with differently. Rather than be the kid waiting in the car, Luke knocked on fear’s door and put a steaming pile of shit on the porch. There was no cowardice when facing the catacombs of his mind. It was the most inspiring and magical 5.9 of my life. The summit gave us views of our playground for the next sixteen days. We were eager to get back to the ground simply so we could find more rock to climb. The tone for the trip was set. 

Some random 5.10 crack

The first time I laid eyes on this line I had no idea of the warmup grade, and found myself inspired. Climbing for the sake of climbing at its finest. At times the crack was scary, and jamming my hands, fists, fingers, and feet into a crack felt foreign. But beneath the mystery of technique was the mystique of the movement. Falling into the rhythm of crack climbing is like swirling into a whirlpool. At first it is slow. The ground remains close, and the moves feel odd and painful. But in the blink of eye the pain of the jams is a reminder of security rather than a hinderance, and torquing your feet is propelling you upward in a metronomic rhythm. I got some weird looks for whooping and hollering my way up and down my warm up, and that is a shame. Lately, I have found myself getting more and more of a kick out of every single route that I do. My love for climbing is no longer select or hardened to the classics or my projects, but instead it is fluid and shines through with each time that I touch stone. The sheer joy I got out of this route was a microcosm of the trip and climbing itself. The whooping and hollering was broken up sporadically by my raving of how “all I want to do is crack climb”, and that “Im definitely going to the creek (Indian Creek, Utah) now.” Follow joy! It is going down in October, and yes, I AM yelling timber! This route threw gas on my bonfire of happiness and cracked a spark of inspirations. I am now supplied with a faint light on the horizon that I can use as a bearing of exploration, the rest is unknown, the way it should be. 

Wow! 

The title of this one comes from the prophet Owen Wilson, and is a short story of developing friendship and ridiculousness. Liam and I had climbed together a little before the trip, but our relationship was mostly joking around at the gym and giving each other the odd belay. While driving through Spokane, I told Liam that I was excited to climb together more and become better friends on the trip. The epic days that followed blew my expectations out of the water. It began on the classic route “Monkey Space.” We sort of roped up but mostly simul solo’d up easy ground to the start of the route, our only protection being a cam Liam placed that promptly fell out of the rock as I was climbing up to it, and one bolt for a belay at the top. The route itself started on a ledge already quite high on the Monkey Face and traversed into quite an infamous cave, before climbing out of the mouth of the monkey, and onto the sought after tag of the summit of the larger than life formation. Liam and I were jazzed, and got a little bit of friendly teasing from another party for only having one helmet between the two of us. We reckoned the second would use the helmet, and the leader would don my mom’s denim Nike hat for both fashion and protection from the sun. I was on the sharp end for the traverse and nervously moved off the ledge. My climbing became more fluid as I settled in. The movement was spectacular; Core intensive delicate traversing among spaced out bolts. The climbing was glorious and the trickier section ended in a bulge to pull over with an oddly placed bolt. I totally messed up the sequencing of clipping the bolt, almost blew the bolt, and then blew my onsight of this moderate. The negative energy I felt hanging on the rope faded instantaneously when I looked across at my smiling friend, down at all the air below my feet, and I took in a breath. To be upset at not sending this route, or to be gratified to be up here enjoying a genuine experience? Disappointment just means you care. I chose to feel it, and then let it pass. The smile on my face was an easy one to put on, and it didn’t leave for much of the rest of the route. Liam and I were mystified by the cave at the top of the traverse pitch. Due to the overhanging nature of the Monkey Face it feels like a living room up in the sky with a green screen backdrop of high desert and dormant volcanoes. Surreal is a complete understatement. We spent a lot of time in there, trying our best to soak up each moment. Liam led us out of the cave and onto the summit, and soon we were on top of the Monkey Face. There were tourists across the gap, only a rope length away physically but they might as well have been on Neptune. Liam and I were elated, completely jazzed on the surreal becoming very, very, real. I have said earlier, and continue to stand by that this feeling of pure lightness can only be felt climbing, and more specifically climbing with good people. The tourists took photos, and I went to take a video of Liam celebrating. Like the man bun monk he is, quietly he stated, “We’ve got it up here, forever.” At this, I paused, laughed, and respected his wishes. He was right, as with much of my writing at times it seems futile because nothing will replace the act of doing. If you want to know what it is like to climb Monkey Space with an amazing friend, then grab an amazing friend and climb Monkey Space. Liam and I found out quickly that we work well together on the rope. I am always thought provoked by our conversations and moved by his insight. The nail in the friendship coffin came when he waded through rattlesnake company to retrieve my pack after I almost got bit, “because you don’t have health insurance, and I do.”

Another rite of passage our partnership went through was our first mini epic. We had enjoyed a day of volume cragging, Liam put down a 5.12 pretty quick and we both got punted off the last move of a blue collar 5.12 stem climb. We decided to finish our day and start our evening by hopping on the easy “Wherever I may roam.” The five pitches were a blur, swinging leads on easy terrain and moving fast. Liam linked the last two pitches and turned the easy sport climb into a runout fiesta that had me laughing into the waxing night. The boys had talked about having a bit of a fiesta back at camp, so we were eager to get back to camp after a long day. The rappel however, was not a fiesta. No muy fiesta. I ran out of rope on a rappel after not having the sides even (middle markers rock!).It was a foolish mistake and if it wasn’t for a bolt that I could heel hook too in order to fix it, it would’ve cost us a couple more hours at the least. With bats flying around and lizards emerging from the stone, the tone was quite heavy, but our spirits remained high. Even higher when we got even lower, I may add. We reached the ground with the only issue being that it was now completely dark and the fear that the boys might already be hammered back at camp and we would have catching up to do. Catching up is always a dangerous game as more often than not, you find yourself in the lead. We jaunted back around to the frontside of the park and to the bridge, where we saw headlights coming on. Thinking it was the rangers and wanting to avoid a ticket for being in the park at night, we hid in the bushes near the top of the hill, and watched a spectacle emerge on one of the walls down in the park. The angle of the lights we were hiding from had set up a massive, fifty metre tall shadow show on the walls of volcanic tuff. It looked like a cult, sitting in a circle, moving around every now and then. My imagination raced. “What the hell is going on up there?” We decided we couldn’t sit forever and would have to make a break for it. We began to move, the headlights started to move toward us. I grimaced at first, my exhausted mind making me nervous. Voices followed. Familiar voices… the boys!!!! With beers!!! Hell yes!!!! 

Sunshine Dihedral

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH” The amount of h’s on that are not hyperbolic and I feel properly represent my fear/power/ohmygodimgonnadie scream right before I took the fall of my life on Sunshine Dihedral. I knew my gear at the bottom wasn’t great but that I had bomber gear below me. That belief was questioned for a split second as one of my pieces ripped out of the wall. Before my next piece caught me, there was one moment of accepted fate. It is hard to explain, because the time in the air is so brief, but your mind seems to have all the time in the world to question every decision ever leading up to that point in your life. It brought me satisfaction that my mind was at a sort of panicked peace when the piece gave me more peace and prevented me from hitting the ground and scarring my friends. I called it a “liberation burn”. I had pushed through my fear, tried hard, and accepted the consequences of committing. Unfortunately, this time that consequence was almost hitting the ground, but next time that consequence could be sending the route. Balance is always a difficult thing to find. The balance between pushing yourself and pushing yourself too far is no exception. The Sunshine Dihedral was a good scope and look into my climbing. The direction I want to go is difficult traditional climbing, but I also have to remind myself that there is a lack of experience that simply cannot be replaced by just trying hard. A base is so important, and currently my mental state is above my physical state. I also know that this is an easy fix, or at the least much easier than if the situation was flipped. Muscles can be trained and technique can be learned. Training the mind is much more fickle, something that I, and every climber struggle against each time we rope up. I wasn’t inspired by the movement on Sunshine the way I wanted to be, and chose to look elsewhere for climbs to focus on. Nonetheless, I didn’t leave empty handed from the flaring corner. I confirmed to myself the direction of climbing I want to pursue, and now know that by combining the undying fire of psyche within the soul, the value of volume, a great diet of quinoa, lentils, and the odd donut cause I am just such a bad boy, that I will climb my dream routes. I may never learn how to fix run on sentences, but I will climb my dream routes. I will climb hard.

Shenanigans

“Okay Liam, just don’t cut too short. I don’t want to be bald.” 

“Relax man, I got you.” 

“LIAM!” I

“So, its a little short, and the razor isn’t really cutting anymore.” 

It was too early in the morning in a city park in Bend, Oregon to have my good friend cutting my hair. But there we were. Laughing our asses off and making a scene. After washing my long hair in a water fountain that morning, I recruited Liam. Armed with clippers and a precise look in his eyes, he was the man for the job. Unfortunately the tools failed and I had to turn to the pros for a buzzcut. I quickly learned that my hairdresser’s ex husband’s name was Nathaniel, and I tried not to show my fear as she went at my head with scissors and razors. Despite her vengeful eyes, she did a great job and I walked out with a pep in my step, Electric Avenue style. My tattoo that I got in Portland on our last rest day shone in the Oregon sunlight as my sewed Uggs (thanks Kyle) strutted the sidewalk. 

Well that was a ridiculous sentence. 

Whether it was Tyson screaming a request for an Enya song, or Luke buying out entire thrift stores, our time spent off the rock was completely ridiculous. I cannot speak for my friend, but there was a sense of freedom in the air. A feeling that catalyzed self expression and eccentricity. It was as if we were on a journey, travelling among the rest of the people outside of the climbing community, but not with them, nor apart from them. The sun’s that we travel around are completely different. Climbing is all consuming. It has somewhat of an “it” factor. Not in the sense of special talent, but the fact that there is a certain moment where you transition from a person who climbs, into a climber. The shenanigans of eating off pre-bussed plates, washing hair in fountains, drunkenly buying a lawn chair in Walmart, and creating incredibly close relationships with once random people are all strengthened and validated not by logic or reason, but simply by the joy that the act of climbing brings. The moment is a special visual representation of that.

The Moment

I knew the sequence of the moves, but wasn’t thinking about them. I wasn’t thinking about anything. The hundreds of feet of air below my smeary footholds didn’t exhilarate me or fill my mind with fear. My hands, bruised and battered from weeks of climbing, ceased to hurt. All I could hear was my breathing, and the wind. The wind provided rhythm for my hands and feet to dance up the stone, finally freed to breathe the air after time in the catacombs of my mind. My right hand reached around the corner, and I felt the temperature change of the different faces of rock. I found the pocket, let out a small noise of effort and worked my feet up. My heels stabbed at either side of the fridge like feature of rock, keeping me clung to this delicate balance of rock and air. I reached my right hand back onto the fridge, and yanked on a small, sloping crimp. The smear feet popped, I was airborne, and then I was not. I noticed the pain in my hands, and I was once more exhilarated by the exposure. Luke shouted encouragement at me. I thanked him for the catch. He lowered me and I described what I had felt and began to refer to it as a “magic burn”. It is a moment of incredible presence and focus, and it used to be rare for me. The Backbone and its exposure almost made “magic burns” easy to get into. I’m sure my eyes were as bright as my pink sweater as I relayed the clarity that Luke knew well from personal experience, ending each sentence with something synonymous to “this is all I want to do, this is my life.” Luke’s genuine grin returned with a “me too” and we felt it at that moment. Pure happiness. I am a climber.

Smith Rock was life changing, and as always, my sign off is a thank you to the people that made it so. The homies of Camp 69, the locals that totally made Smith feel like home, the Calgary crew that drove us to Walmart and put up with our goofiness, and of course, the angry man who told us “to take the party back to the picnic tables”. Sorry old man, you cannot kill the vibe, it is immortal. 

The Energy

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

Wine Tastes Better Than Whine

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   

A Home Brewed Story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Nat, God loves you mate." 

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

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

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

   

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

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

   

A Bivi Bag Is Better Than a Bed

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Tiptoeing The Line

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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